


Bad blood

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Referenced Past Drug Use, Referenced past abuse, Some Side Pairings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, and they have so many issues, bit of X-men vibe when it comes to world building, everyone is a bit not good, not dark!Sherlock, of sorts, the Holmes parents were bad parents and nothing will ever convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Two years ago, agent Sherlock Holmes betrayed his team, leaving his former lover, agent John Watson, at death’s door.When a new mission gets assigned to him, John wonders if he’ll be capable of doing what needs to be done.Especially if that includes killing Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Bad blood

**Author's Note:**

> So… this. I had promised myself I wouldn’t start posting this until I had finished at least 2 of my current WIPs.  
> As I’ve said a million times before, I have no self control.  
> In my defense, I did finish one WIP and another one is almost done so… yeah, that counts, doesn’t it? Probably. Somewhat. Also, I can now actually listen to Taylor Swift’s albums on Spotify and of course that’s exactly what I’ve been doing so… well. I can’t hold back any longer :P  
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings, enjoy!

The halls are dark and quiet, which isn’t surprising considering the time it is, but it still makes John wary. In his line of work he has become used to walk in the dark with barely any light to guide his way and he has become used to rely on his hearing to determine if there’s any danger ahead, but the fact that he can do it doesn’t mean he actually likes doing it.

Besides, considering what happened two years ago-

 _Don’t think about that,_ he chastises himself, walking a bit faster. He knows how to move in total silence, careful not to give away his location and that’s a trait that carries even when he’s not on a mission and/or in a place where he could be in actual danger. Considering he’s simply walking down the Organization’s halls, he knows he’s as safe as a man with his job can be, but he doesn’t like this almost unnatural silence, not to mention the fact that all lights are out and it’s raining outside, which of course would be the perfect cover for anyone who might be following him.

He sighs. He’s getting paranoid in his old age, but tonight’s circumstances aren’t helping one bit. The power has been out for a little over 2 hours, but since only senior officers are working at this hour and they should actually be home, playing their part as regular people with regular lives, nobody has bothered with trying to reconnect it. The med facility runs on alternative energies and the Organization has a strict policy of laptops and phones always being fully charged, in case stuff like this happens, so it’s really far from a priority. As far as everyone is concerned, the electric company can take care of it tomorrow.

He finally reaches his destination, a serie of dancing flames signaling the office is occupied. John takes a deep breath, as he usually does before seeing his boss; the man just rubs him the wrong way and considering their sort of shared history… well, their relationship is a bit tense, to say at least.

“Ah, John,” Mycroft greets pleasantly, fake smile plastered on his face as usual. “How nice you could come.”

 _As if I had any other choice,_ John thinks, but doesn’t say. He smiles just as falsely and takes a seat in front of the desk, sparing a quick glance to the other occupant in the room. Special Agent Greg Lestrade offers him a tight smile before his eyes drop to the documents he seems to be revising, a slight frown marring his handsome features. John frowns, because when MI5 gets involved in their cases it’s usually bad business, but of course Greg might be making a social visit.

He looks back at Mycroft. What Greg sees in him he’ll never be able to tell, although it must be quite something, considering how… _difficult_ Mycroft can be, not to mention how dangerous, unpredictable and deadly his _abilities_ can be.

“I’m afraid Mr. Lestrade is here on business tonight,” Mycroft says, as if reading his mind and while John knows that’s not among Mycroft’s abilities, he wouldn’t completely discard it. “A certain operation has come to our attention; it seems… well. The _modus operandi_ seems to suggest that Moriarty might be involved.”

John tenses immediately, dark memories coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He forces himself to relax and behave as professionally as possibly. “Moriarty disappeared two years ago. There hasn’t been a single lead on where he went or what is he doing, why do you think-?”

“Sherlock was spotted at the latest crime scene,” Greg interrupts, tone more or less neutral and John’s heart skips a beat as yet more memories come back to him. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep breathing normally and he succeeds somewhat.

“I see,” he replies once he believes he has gotten his emotions under control. “What are my instructions, then?” he asks dispassionately and he glares as the other men exchange a concerned look. “I said, what are my orders, _boss_?”

Mycroft pursues his lips, displeased. “John I... I’d understand if you’d rather not be involved. I could always get another agent-”

“If you believed someone else could do it, you wouldn’t have asked me here in the first place,” John argues darkly, pushing his shoulders back and aiming to look strong and collected. “What are my orders, _sir_?”

Mycroft exchanges another look with Greg and finally sighs, sliding a folder in John’s direction while Greg passes him the one he was revising earlier. “Your orders are to find Sherlock Holmes and bring him in for questioning. However, if capture is impossible, you’re strongly encouraged to shot to kill.”

John closes his eyes, heart clenching painfully inside his chest. He always knew this day would come. “As you say, sir.” He stands up, holding the folders close to his chest, looking flatly at the other men. “Was there something else?”

“You can ask for any agents as backup, as usual. Also, I want you to take Morstan with you when you actually go after my brother.” Mycroft makes a face, evidently not wanting to be reminded that the man they’re now chasing is actually related to him. “You’re dismissed, Watson.”

The formality seems to help them both to cope with this new mission and so John doesn’t comment on it, simply nodding before turning around and exiting the room, careful to keep his indifferent facade until he’s out of earshot.

Good lord, how is he supposed to do this?

 

* * *

 

The lights in the lab are on, so John supposes someone managed to repair them before regular office hours started. He has been locked up inside his own office, revising old files and his head is now killing him: bad lighting and no sleep will do that to you, he supposes.

He eyes the coffee machine wistfully and sighs. Caffeine makes him jumpy and that’s the last thing he needs right now, but it sure looks tempting. He spares a quick look around the room, noticing Molly’s door is closed and he manages to take a couple of steps towards the machine before he hears the door opening, effectively putting an end to his plan. Molly won’t say a word, but she’ll look at him full of concern and that’s the last thing he needs right now.

He watches Dimmock walk out of the woman’s office, telling her one last joke that makes her laugh. When he sees John he offers him a brief smile before slipping right past him, expression calm and relaxed and not at all looking as a man who just a week ago was involved in the biggest shooting in the history of the Organization.

John can’t help smiling. Molly is truly a miracle worker.

She’s now standing by her door, watching him in silence. She gestures for him to join her in her office and he goes, not before straightening up and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. He likes Molly, he really does, but she also makes him very nervous.

John is a man who avoids emotions as the plague, Molly is a bloody empath.

“You’re working your magic on Dimmock, I see,” he comments off handedly, taking a seat on one of her multiples couches, the one nearest to the door, which of course doesn’t go unnoticed by her. “He looks as if nothing had happened at all.”

Molly scrunches her nose, distraught. “I’m a psychiatrist, John. I should be helping people to deal with their emotions and their trauma, not simply… magic it away.” She rubs her temples tiredly; emotional transference is a tough job and, personally, John doesn’t think there’s a lot of people who can handle it without going mad.

Molly is one hell of a tough cookie, even if she looks far from it. “It’s effective,” he comments, shrugging non committedly and Molly rolls her eyes. They’re both thinking of John’s own sessions and how even now, 2 years later, he refuses to even _think_ about what happened on that damned night.

“What are you doing here, John? You avoid me as much as you possibly can.”

“I don’t,” he protests quietly, shifting on his seat uncomfortably. Molly arches her eyebrows and he sighs. “I just don’t have sessions scheduled with you anymore and I’m not really fond of being at the lab just because.”

Molly smiles sadly. Sherlock spent a ridiculous amount of time at the lab when they weren’t working on a case, usually entertaining himself with an experiment of his own but sometimes helping Molly with her own research. While she has several degrees in psychology and psyquetry, she’s also a bit of an amateour genetist (her words; nobody who actually knows her and/or has read her research would call her _amateour_ ).

“So, what are you doing here then?” she asks, after a slightly tense silence and John sighs once more, running his fingers through his hair.

“Actually, I called a meeting here,” he confesses quietly. “None of the conference rooms seemed… secured enough and this case would benefit from some secrecy.”

“Would it?” she asks, interest piqued and John smirks, having been counting on that. The mission is likely to be draining on everyone involved so they could really use Molly’s help, not to mention her knowledge in forensic sciences.

The door opens just then and a couple of women slide in. “Molly. Watson,” Irene greets, smiling charmingly at the redhead and barely looking in John’s direction. He expected as much, so he doesn’t comment. Kate rolls her eyes behind Irene’s back and offers John a small, pleasant smile before her expressions turns perfectly blank.

“Irene,” he greets politely. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled at the prospect of working with you either,” he assures her. Their relationship is… tense, to say at least and it certainly hasn’t benefited one bit from the fact that she feels guilty for the injuries he sustained during the _issue_ with Sherlock. Irene was supposed to be watching his back, but she had been too surprised to react timely.

John doesn’t blame her for that one bit.

“This must be some difficult work if you’re willing to put up with her 24/7,” Kate says, smirking when Irene throws a wounded look in her direction.

“Excuse me! I am the best of the best this organization has to offer and I-”

Before Irene can continue with her heartfelt speech, the door opens once more, allowing yet another woman in. Mary looks around the room, surprised, but she smiles warmingly at all the occupants. “Morning, everyone.”

John smiles at her briefly, perhaps a tad forced. He likes Mary, perhaps too much and he’d rather not have her involved in such a dangerous case, but Mycroft had said he wanted her in and well…

He just hopes this won’t backfire.

“Take a seat, Mary,” he offers, gesturing around the room. “I was just about the brief the girls in.”

Mary nods, hesitantly dropping herself right next to him. The couch isn’t very big, but they both fit comfortably although he was thinking she’d sit at any of the other open spaces. He catches Irene’s raised eyebrow and he tells himself not to blush, but it’s a long lost battle.

“So, care to share what this is about, Cap?” Irene asks after a beat, smirk firmly in place as usual, knowing John dislikes the nickname and enjoying getting him all riled up, but he knows to pick his battles when it comes to The Woman.

“Right,” he murmurs, taking out the files Mycroft gave him last night while the women lean closer, their expressions now serious. He smiles ruefully, thinking he couldn’t have chosen a better team.

And yet, there’s a member missing.

 

* * *

 

John runs his fingers over the scar tissue absent mindedly, eyes fixed on the mirror. The bullet had taken his military career away, along with his chance to work as a surgeon in a regular hospital and, for a long time, he felt it had also taken his will to live away.

His eyes roam across his chest, looking for other scars, some physical reminder of what happened that night, but he knows there are none. Molly works her magic on people’s minds, Sara works hers in their bodies.

He thinks the lack of scars is both a blessing and a curse, because it makes it so easy to forget how bad it was. It makes it easy to forget that he had been at death’s door, body broken beyond repair, every breath making him beg for death.

He closes his eyes, putting his shirt back on. He knows he should be sleeping, but he can’t bring himself to even attempt to, knowing there’ll be nothing but nightmares for him tonight. He’s tired and he’s going to need to be well rested if he’s going to survive this mission, but then he’s not completely sure he wants to survive. Sometimes, in the death of the night, he lies awake in bed and wonders if it wouldn’t have been better if Sherlock had finished the job.

Now he wonders if he should let him finish it.

 

* * *

 

Protocol dictates a gifted with a mind-related ability must be paired with someone with a physical one. In theory, it’s supposed to make them a more rounded up team, playing on both their weakness and their strengths.

In practice it doesn’t always work out well.

John’s _gift_ never felt as such, really. Sure, he’s super strong, particularly when angry but he never thought it played a very important role in their cases. Sherlock did most of the work when it came to actually looking for someone or figuring out what they were after and John… well, he just made sure he didn’t get injured in the process.

He had always been on awe by Sherlock’s mind, not only for his telepathic and telekinetic abilities, but for the way it worked. The connections he made and the ease with which he made them… well, it was truly something.

He had fallen for him hard and fast and he had always been lead to believe the feeling was mutual.

The night everything went to hell, Mycroft had sent Irene with him, because Sherlock was nowhere to be found. It had happened a couple of times before, but it didn’t seem troubling and so John hadn’t thought much about it. He and Irene had made their way into a research facility; there was a rumor that Moriarty might be interested in one of their current projects and that he might attempt to steal all the documents on it, so their job was to ensure he didn’t. It had seemed like a pretty easy, standard mission and nothing suggested there would be any real trouble.

Oh, how wrong they had been.

 

* * *

 

_This floor is as deserted as all the previous ones, or at least that’s what John initially thinks. Then he hears a soft noise in the far side of one of the rooms and he slides in, careful not to make any noise._

_There’s a man kneeling by one of the file cabinets, the non existent light making it hard to see his face. From where John is standing he can see his profile and his messy curls and while his brain recognizes him immediately, it also refuses to believe what his eyes are seeing._

_“Sherlock?” he calls out, despite every nerve in his body and all his training telling him that’s the wrong thing to do. The man looks up, looking like a deer caught in the highlights for a beat before he quickly recovers, a blank mask coming to settle over his features._

_His… boyfriend? partner? love of his life? regards him coldly, eyes quickly flicking around the room, no doubt looking for an escape route. John’s heart has stopped in his chest and he thinks he’s going to be sick; it makes no sense whatsoever and yet-_

_Sherlock takes a step towards him and John takes a step back, pulling out his gun. Soon they’re circling each other, both deadly quiet, both assessing their options. John knows he could never hurt Sherlock and, until that moment, he also didn’t think Sherlock would hurt him._

_“What are you doing?” he asks, gun raised although his arm is shaking. Sherlock simply continues staring at him, expression completely blank and John can’t help the shiver running down his spine. The whole scene is surreal and his brain and heart can’t reconcile with the fact that it’s actually happening._

_Suddenly, Sherlock raises an arm and John finds himself being pushed backwards. He’s familiar enough with Sherlock’s powers to know what’s happening, but he can’t react. Although to be fair, even if he could, he knows it’d be of no use._

_The main thing he feels is shock._

_His body continues being pushed backwards, hitting the window and breaking it into a thousand little pieces. He’s vaguely aware of the pain, but the shock doesn’t let it really register. He’s falling and he has little doubt he’ll die from the fall, but none of that matters. An endless loop of_ why? _plays inside his head and everything else is background noise._

_He hears a woman’s cry and realizes belatedly Irene has arrived. He spares a second to worry about her and silently prays she won’t face the same fate as his, but the ground is fast approaching and the shock has faded enough for him to actually start feeling fear._

_He thinks his fall might have been somewhat slowed, but he’s not sure. Maybe his mind is playing one last trick on him and he closes his eyes, bracing himself for whatever might come next._

_His head impacts with the floor and his last thought before the world turns black is that death might  be a small mercy, after all._

_He’s not sure he could live with Sherlock’s betrayal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I had considered going on for a little longer, but then I realized I couldn’t do that without this first chapter feeling like an info dump (I certainly hope it doesn’t feel that way). I promise everything is going to work out and Sherlock has his reasons for being a dick (I’m not saying they’re good reasons). Also, if something is super confusing, please let me know because sometimes I get carried away and forget what I have actually explained and what I have just assumed I have :P  
> I think the rest of the chapters will also have Taylor Swift’s songs’ titles, but well… I’m not quite sure yet. I have a couple of titles that could work but are from songs of other artists so… well, we’ll see, I suppose ;)  
> Pretty please let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Ours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Quick, wasn’t it? Well… what can I say? I’m pretty inspired for this! There are some clarifications at the end notes, in case some things seem confusing in this chapter, but well…   
> Enjoy!

 The light is still on when Greg wakes up again.

He groans, fishing for his phone on the night table on his side of the bed and stares at the screen that informs him it’s 2 o’clock in the morning. He groans again, pushing himself upwards so he’s half lying on top of the wall of pillows separating the sides of the bed. “Mycroft,” he says, voice groggy with sleep but his partner continues tapping away on his tablet. He’s wearing his glasses, which Greg has always thought make him look particularly dashing but right now he’s not in the mood to gaze adoringly at the other man. “Mycroft,” he repeats, one finger digging on his side, careful not to touch the exposed skin of his belly, no matter how badly he wants to.

Mycroft startles, nearly dropping his tablet in his haste to get out of the bed. Greg rolls his eyes dramatically, sitting up and staring at his boyfriend. “You said you’d go to sleep at midnight,” he accuses, crossing his arms over his chest and Mycroft has the decency to blush guiltily.

“I’m busy,” he argues, coming to sit on the bed once more, keeping himself on the far side of the bed, which makes Greg roll his eyes once more.

“We’re both perfectly awake now, Mycroft,” he says, smoothing down the pillow fortress he had been previously lying on. “There’s no risk of any accidental touching.”

Mycroft eyes the pillow fort distrustfully, but he does come to sit closer. Personally, Greg would like to do without the wall, but he knows better than to push his companion’s boundaries.

Particularly since they are for his own safety and that would be rather ungrateful of him.

“So, why are you still awake?” he asks after a while, once his boyfriend has convinced himself there’s enough distance between them. Mycroft shrugs non committedly and Greg is hard pressed not to groan. “Mycroft?”

“I’m troubled,” the other confesses quietly, eyes glued to his tablet. “I just… this whole thing with Sherlock…”

Greg sighs. “You’re concerned he’ll end up killed.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I know John would never do it. Why do you think I asked him in the first place?” he asks, a self depreciating smile on his lips. “I know he’ll bring him in unscratched.”

“And that makes you feel… guilty?”

Mycroft chuckles humorlessly. “After everything John’s been through… it’s rather unfair to use him like this. To force him to confront my brother and chase after him just because I know he won’t hurt him, even if Sherlock nearly killed him two years ago.”

Greg had been thinking something along those lines too, to be honest and he was actually quite relieved when Mycroft proposed to assign the mission to John. “He’s your brother, Mycroft. It’s only natural you want to protect him.”

Mycroft sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his temples tiredly. “Looking back, I can’t help thinking… I should have noticed sooner,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Greg. “After what happened with Eurus… I should have seen the signs far sooner. Maybe I could have-”

Greg grabs his hand impulsively, holding it tight for a beat before Mycroft manages to pull away. “You couldn’t have predicted what he was going to do. You’re very good at predicting people’s moves, but you’re not a mind reader.”

Mycroft smiles self deprecatingly, holding the hand he snatched away to his chest. “Perhaps. But I still should have noticed sooner. It’s not like I didn’t have a frame of reference this time around.” He scrunches his nose, annoyed with himself. “He’s my brother; I should have noticed something was off.”

“Love can blind us,” Greg offers, although he knows it’s a poor consolation. Mycroft shakes his head, expression haunted.

“The thing is… I still worry about him. And I worry- I don’t think- I’m afraid I won’t be able to exercise as extreme measures with him as I did with Eurus. What does that say about me?”

Greg sighs, attempting to grab his partner's hand once more, but Mycroft keeps it away, glaring half heartedly and so he desists. “You’ve already lost a sibling, Mycroft. I don’t think it has anything to do with you loving your brother more than you did your sister, I think it’s just- you don’t want to lose another one.”

“She’s not dead,” Mycroft protests weakly, not looking directly at him and Greg nods.

“But she might as well be. You haven’t seen her in… what? five, six years?”

His companion nods, lips pinched tight. “So you think I’m doing the right thing?” he asks, oddly unsure and Greg’s heart aches at seeing his usually confident boyfriend so scared.

He bites his lip thoughtfully. Two years ago he hadn’t believed Sherlock would ever hurt John; he had refused to believe it even after seeing with his own two eyes the state John was in and after hearing John’s testimony with his own ears. It made no sense whatsoever and, to this day, he can’t begin to imagine what was going on inside Sherlock’s head when he decided to betray not only the Organization, but the man he had always claimed to love.

He had liked Sherlock, he really had, despite all those… unpleasant traits of his and even now he finds himself reluctant of thinking of him as the sort of criminal he regularly chases after. He doubts he’d be able to shoot him, even if circumstances were dire and he’s fairly certain Mycroft would sooner let his brother shoot him than raise a single hand against him so-

Well, what can he say? “He’s your brother,” he repeats. “You love him.”

Mycroft nods. “Does that justify that I torture the man that loves him just as much, if in a different fashion?”

Greg sighs, pushing the cushions out of the way and awkwardly wrapping an arm around his lover’s shoulders, careful not to make any skin-to-skin contact and while Mycroft tenses for a beat, he soon relaxes into the embrace. “John can handle it,” he murmurs and he knows it’s true. “It might not be very fair… but he can handle it.”

Mycroft nods, “doesn’t mean he should.”

“You can’t worry about everyone,” Greg argues, patting his arm. “We’ve been through this before. Sometimes you gotta do something that might be… _ questionable _ , for the greater good.”

“This isn’t the case, though,” Mycroft argues calmly, a slight smirk on his lips. He’s still troubled, he can tell, but he’s beginning to relax. “I’m just being horribly selfish.”

“We can keep arguing this all night long, but you know better than to invite me to your pity parties, love,” he whispers affectionately, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his partner's head. “Go to sleep. It’ll all be better in the morning.”

Mycroft scoffs, but does move to place his tablet safely on his night table, next to his glasses. “You’re a terrible liar, Gregory Lestrade.”

“ _ Au contraire, mon ami _ ,” Greg argues, smiling mischievously. “I’m the best professional liar out there. How would I keep my job otherwise?” Mycroft hums, lying down and finally turning off the lights.

They lie on their sides, facing each other, half of their pillow wall gone. Mycroft offers him one last smile, squeezing his arm briefly before picking up one of the discarded pillows and placing it back on its place.

Greg just sighs.

 

* * *

 

Six years ago, Greg Lestrade had found himself kidnapped.

Well, sort of. He had been working on a case when a couple of men in dark suits had asked him to follow them into an ominous black car parked just outside the hotel he was staying in. Used as he was to be invited for mysterious rides by mysterious strangers that intended to murder him more often than not, Greg had followed resignedly.

He had attempted his usual escape method a few seconds later (read: attempt to knock out his captors) and although he had succeeded on incapacitating one, he soon found himself crouching on his seat, feeling like his head was about to explode.

He had learned later that that was the standard method used by telepaths to subside a  _ troublesome  _ subject. Mycroft had profusely apologised for the attack, telling him the Agents’ orders had been to simply bring him in, but they had probably panicked when he attempted to get away (he also learned most Agents had some healthy fear for their boss’ wrath and so they avoided messing up a mission at all costs).

It had been love at first sight.

For Greg, that is. Mycroft had needed a little more convincing.

Technically, the Organization wasn’t a secret agency, although it certainly operated as one and no official government took responsibility for their actions. Which was just plain convenient when a few regulations got overlooked or some nasty and problematic fellow found himself in a  _ tragic  _ accident that looked a little too much like a murder.

It was mainly composed by  _ Gifted  _ personnel, which in Greg’s opinion made it all kinds of dangerous and had said as much, earning himself a smug smile from Mycroft. Gifted ones aren’t exactly rare, but very few are powerful enough for their gifts to be of any actual use, although that doesn’t make them any less likely to be discriminated (people are so prejudiced, seriously). The Organization however recruits anyone who shows even an inkling of potential and grooms them to become dangerous but thoroughly loyal Agents.

More or less. There are a few exceptions, of course.

One of these exceptions, one James Moriarty, had been the main suspect of several of Greg’s unsolved cases and the Organization had been asked to step in since his schemes were quickly escalating. Which had led to Greg’s eventual kidnap and first meeting with Mycroft and finding out about the Organization’s existence.

It’s quite the love story, he thinks, although Mycroft always rolls his eyes when he says as much.

He has been working with them (unofficially) ever since. He had always enjoyed his job, but he quickly found out he enjoyed it more when the Organization was involved. He liked the Agents he worked with regularly; most of them were a bit wary of him at first but he quickly won them over. He had been pleased to find an old friend, Dr. Molly Hooper and he had quickly became acquainted with Sherlock, since he was usually at Molly’s lab, making a nuisance of himself (he had toned it down when he met John, of course).

The truth is that since Moriarty disappeared without leaving any trace, he has had a hard time justifying the ridiculous amount of time he spends at the Organization, but his superiors don’t seem to mind as long as he sends his reports in time. Now though-

Well. In all truth, he’s obviously concerned because Moriarty’s return can’t be a good thing, especially not with Sherlock on his side, but he’s also quite excited of being back on working on this case.

It’s how all began, after all.

 

* * *

 

“Morning, sunshine!”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, not bothering to look up from the morning paper and Greg chuckles, leaning down to press a quick kiss against the top of his head. Mycroft hums, looking up and stealing another kiss before gesturing Greg to go make them tea.

Greg shakes his head, amused and puts on the kettle. He hunts for something to eat in the fridge, but it’s as empty as ever. He hasn’t had time to go to the grocery store and Mycroft can’t be bothered with that sort of thing. “Donut and coffee on the go, it is,” he says to himself and hears Mycroft’s disgusted noise. “Well, if you want me to eat healthy, you should buy food. Or have a minion do it for you.”

“I don't have minions,” Mycroft protests, but his tone is full of affection and Greg can’t help grinning brightly. Then Mycroft puts the paper down, expression deadly serious and Greg’s smile falls. “There’s a favour I want to ask you,” he says, eyes locked with his and Greg nods slowly, nervous now.

“Sure, anything,” he responds eagerly, approaching his boyfriend and sitting next to him. He wants to reach out and grab his hand, for Mycroft is obviously upset, but he knows better. Neither of them is wearing gloves this early in the morning and Greg can’t stand direct contact with his boyfriend for longer than 10 seconds.

Which of course has made them very creative when it comes to physical affection, but that’s not here nor there.

“Mycroft, love, what’s wrong?”

Mycroft sighs, rubbing his hands together nervously, which of course just makes Greg want to hold them and offer some comfort more. “I… do you think you could keep an eye on John and his team? I don’t- I don’t think I could forgive myself if something happened to them.”

In truth, there’s very little Greg could actually do if John or one of the girls got in any trouble and they’re more likely to get out of it without his help, but he supposes that if it’ll make Mycroft feel better… “Sure. I’ll swing by later and check out on John’s progress, how about that?”

Mycroft nods slowly, chewing on his lip. “You think I’m being obsessive.”

Greg sighs, standing up and going to check on the kettle, more to have something to do than because he has to. “I’ve always admired how… through you are. And I understand, Mycroft, I really do.”

His partner is watching him closely, brow furrowed and Greg offers him what he hopes is a confident smile.

This case is going to take a toll on all of them.

He’s not sure how to make it easier to bear, but for Mycroft, he’ll try.

 

* * *

 

“You just missed John,” Molly informs him, without looking up from the microscope. “He and Kate are checking out all of Sherlock’s old hangouts. Irene is supposed to be helping, but...” she waves a hand vaguely, a half smile on her lips.

“They still don’t get along, do they?”

Molly shrugs, noting something down on her notebook before moving her microscope away. “Irene doesn’t forgive herself for what happened two years ago, even though John doesn’t blame her for it and he… well. You know he never really liked her and her link to Sherlock didn’t help matters. Even now, he can’t help his jealousy.”

Greg shakes his head. It’s kind of crazy to be jealous about the mind link your ex boyfriend had with one of his co workers, especially when said ex boyfriend attempted to kill you, but he’s not about to say that. He understands it’s not his place and also, he supposes people in love are all kinds of irrational.

And it’s clear as water that, despite everything, John is still deeply in love with Sherlock.

“That can’t be healthy,” he murmurs to himself, but Molly hears him and scoffs.

“John’s case is… difficult. He has buried his emotions so deep that even I have a hard time accessing them and it’s impossible to get him to work through his emotions and move past what happened if he won’t even consider facing his feelings.” She makes a face, looking somewhere between annoyed and concerned. “Much like your boyfriend, actually.”

Greg sighs, running a hand through his greying hair. “He’s having a hard time coping with this new development too; he blames himself for what happened with Sherlock and he’s not sure he’s being fair to John by forcing him to work in this case.”

“John would be working in this even if Mycroft hadn’t asked him,” Molly argues calmly. “He has never been able to stay away from Sherlock. Which is all kinds of unhealthy, of course, but…” She shrugs, expression thoughtful. “Mycroft really shouldn’t blame himself for not seeing it coming,” she says, rubbing her chin. “None of us did. Which is… weird, because hey, empath here, you would think I would have noticed if he was having crazy thoughts about betraying us all.”

Yes, Greg has often wondered about that. “You never felt anything… wrong with him?”

Molly shakes her head, expression incredibly troubled. “Everything was… he was… he was so happy, Greg. It made no sense whatsoever.” She closes her eyes, expression pained. “He loved John so much; I’m certain of that. I normally shield against external emotions because it can get pretty overwhelming, especially at work, but Sherlock’s feelings… they were so strong I just couldn’t help but notice. They were all over the place and they never failed to make me feel better, even after a crappy day.” She smiles wistfully, “much like your own, to be honest, which is why I keep you around now.” She winks playfully, no doubt wanting to light up the mood a bit.

“Oh, is that so?” he asks, figuring he might as well give her a break. Dealing with emotions isn’t particularly easy, even for the most balanced people and Molly has to deal with a lot of feelings on daily basis: not only her own, but all of her patient’s and the occasional friend who over shares. Also, it can’t be pleasant discussing this particular subject and he supposes she also blames herself for what happened, thinking she should have prevented it somehow.

There’s a reason why they are so few empaths Molly’s age, despite empathy not being one of the rarest gifts.

Molly hums, evidently grateful for the change of subject. “Mycroft’s are all over the place too on a good day, but yours are more… stable? consistent?” Greg frowns a little and Molly rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Now, don’t get all insecure on me. He loves you just as much, he just… he worries a lot for a lot of things.”

“He has much in his plate,” Greg agrees, a small smile on his lips. His relationship with Mycroft has never been easy; between the need for no-touching and Mycroft’s many emotional barriers, Greg knows he’s privileged to be allowed so close. Still, sometimes he can’t help wishing-

“I never thought you would actually make it,” Molly musses out loud, smirking a bit. “We had a bet going, you know? On how long it’d take you to give up on trying to get him to date you.” She smiles good naturedly. “You made me lose me good money.”

Greg laughs. “You wound me, Molly Hooper. Everyone else… well, they didn’t know me that long back then. But you? When you have ever heard of me giving up? Especially on something like this?”

Yes, Greg is willing to admit he was a bit of a serial dater, back when he and Molly had met. Growing up and his job certainly made him change that, but he still didn’t know when to give up on chasing someone. It’d have been different if he had really believed Mycroft wasn’t interested, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that what was holding Mycroft back were his own issues and no any actual lack of interest.

Molly rolls her eyes. “It’s not you I had my doubts about, but Mycroft,” she argues, crossing her arms over her chest. “He self sabotages far too much.” She smiles tightly. “For all your charm, I didn’t think you’d make it pass his many defenses.”

“Shame on you, Molly,” he says, still smiling. “I can’t believe none of you thought I would make it. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.”

Molly’s expression has turn wistful one more. “Sherlock did,” she says, eyes infinitely sad. “He always said you were the one for his brother.”

That sounds… awfully sentimental, especially coming from Sherlock. “I never took him for a romantic,” he confesses quietly and Molly chuckles humorlessly.

“Oh, he was, although he’d rather die than admit it. He had a large collection of romance novels,” she tells him with a secretive smile. “He bought John a ring with the money he won, you know?”

“He what?!”

Molly bites her lip, having said more than she intended. Greg just blinks, because that makes no sense whatsoever: why would Sherlock buy John a ring, if he was planning on betraying them? He wonders if he ever got around giving it to the doctor; his guess is  _ no  _ and that’s probably for the best, considering how things turned out. The betrayal had been hard enough on John without having to add that little detail.

“Why would he do that?” Greg asks,honestly puzzled, all good cheer long gone.

“He loved him, presumably,” Molly says, a tad defensively and Greg frowns at the way her lips tighten. She and Sherlock were good friends, he knows and he supposes it’s a bit hard to overlook that, despite all.  

“He throw him off the 13th floor window,” Greg feels obliged to point out, frowning deeply. “What does that mean?” he asks, mostly to himself but Molly shrugs and answers anyway.

“Don’t stand too close to windows?” she suggests sarcastically and covers her mouth a second later, looking horrified. Greg blinks, a bit surprised, but he promptly realizes she was joking. A rather morbid joke, of course, but Molly’s humor has always been a bit… weird. It probably has something to do with all the things she has to deal with; a coping mechanism of sorts. 

Greg watches her for a beat and then forces a light smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but that he hopes reassures her somehow. “Mycroft doesn’t need to throw me off a window to kill me,” he says lightly. “He could just kiss me properly. Not a bad way to go, in all honesty.”

He smiles a bit wistfully, thinking that would be indeed a nice way to go, although Mycroft would probably be horrified if he said as much. His gift is more like a curse, in all honesty, although there’s no denying it can be quite useful in dire circumstances. It has certainly saved his life a couple of times and so Greg isn’t about to complain, although…

Well, it’s difficult.

“Anyway, I probably should get going,” he says, smiling good naturedly once more. “I’m supposed to be checking on John, so I’d be better off.” 

“See you around then,” she replies sweetly and he pecks her cheek before turning on his heel and rushing out of her office. This conversation has unnerved him and he’s getting more and more concerned. He knew this case was going to be difficult and that it was going to take quite a toll on them, but what Molly has just told him-

Well, it sits ill with him.

Sherlock’s betrayal never made sense to him, now that he knows he was planning on proposing, it makes even less sense.

He thinks of the ring he himself is hiding back at the house, the ring he hasn’t gathered the courage to present Mycroft with. Two years ago, when he asked Mycroft to move in with him, he had wondered if he was taking advantage of how vulnerable the other man was. If he asks now-

Well. Something to consider another day, he supposes.

Right now he needs to focus on finding John.

One day at the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
> I so love to write Mystrade and I’m so loving the angle I’m taking with this. In case you’re confused, allow me to clarify what Mycroft’s  _ gift  _ is. Since I’ve said the world building is very X-Men inspired, the best way to describe it, I think, it’s to equal it to Rogue’s. You know, she can absorb any mutant’s power and use it (briefly, if I recall correctly) but prolonged skin-to-skin contact would kill (in the first movie she discovers it when she nearly kills the boy she’s making out with, remember?)
> 
> So.. yeah, that’s it. 
> 
> As for everyone else… well. I’ve already established Sherlock is a telepath and he has telekinesis, just like Irene. John is super strong, Kate is meant to be super quick, Molly is an empath (I don’t think there’s a direct reference to the X-Men here; but you probably have a good idea of what it involves by now, right?). We’ll see Mary’s powers later, as well as Eurus’ (yes, she’s showing up eventually!). Jim is also a telepath, although I’ll admit he doesn’t play quite a big role in here as he usually does in my fics…
> 
> Quick question! Are you guys interested in seeing Sherlock’s POV? I can’t reveal what really happened on that fatidic night just yet- I have a whole “evil” monologue prepared for that (only it’s not evil at all) but well… we can get some pining and angst and remorse and what-not…
> 
> Anyway, I think that’s it for now! Hope you enjoyed it and let me know if there’s something that has you confused!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	3. All too well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! That was real quick, huh? Well, what can I say? When I’m really inspired I can write a chapter a day but when inspiration leaves… well, there’s nothing to do then :P  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

In retrospective, maybe coming back to London hadn’t been one of his best ideas.

Then again, it’s not like he had planned it. In fact, he hasn’t made a single plan for himself in over 2 years; he gave up on that right when he choose to take upon himself to bring down Moriarty’s network all on his own. After all, he had been given a golden opportunity and he couldn’t let it go to waste, no matter the personal sacrifices it might imply.

But-

He sighs, turning on the bed so he’s facing the ceiling. Perhaps it’ll be easier to fall asleep like this; ceilings are pretty standard, no matter where you are, unlike rooms and furniture, that are always changing, even if every hotel room has the same impersonal feeling.

And of course, tonight he’s not sleeping at some random hotel room.

He sighs. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let his emotions get the best of him, but the minute he had stepped down the plane he had been hit with the urge to rush into Baker Street, although he had known it was unlikely John was still there. He has been careful to keep his distance, not once giving into his desire to find out how John is doing. It’d be dangerous, for both of them and besides-

Well, he has no right to know what John’s up lately, does he?

He considered contacting him from the very beginning. These two years have been an uphill battle, with him wanting to give into his selfish desires and call his ex lover to explain and his more rational side urging him to ignore such impulses, reminding him of what exactly he did and why he doesn’t deserve to see John ever again.

He has wanted to call and explain so many times. But what’s there to explain, really? There’s nothing he can say that could possibly justify hurting John,  _ nearly killing him _ . What can he possibly say to make his crime any less horrible? That he didn’t mean it? That he miscalculated? That he’s sorry?

Yeah, right. Sorry is definitely not going to cut it in this case.

He sits up, giving up on sleeping. He’s tired beyond words, but his mind refuses to go quiet and he knows he’s just going to end up lying on the bed, thinking about things he’d rather not think of. He supposes he could work; he has a criminal organization to bring down after all and being in the inside of it isn’t helping as much as he’d have hoped.

He goes to pick up his suitcase, which he abandoned as soon as he stepped into the flat. Baker Street remained unchanged, as if these two years hadn’t passed at all. Everything is exactly as he remembers, not a single thing out of place.

There’s a heavy layer of dust covering everything, which suggests not even Mrs. Hudson has been up here in a long while. Which is kind of weird; they could usually count on their landlady making an unexpected visit to dust a little, even though she kept repeating she wasn’t their housekeeper. Sherlock always assumed she just didn’t like the mess, but now he’s beginning to think maybe she just liked to keep an eye on them.

He sits on John’s old chair, curling into it and sinking his nose into the backrest, searching for the slightest whiff of John’s scent. But all he smells is dust and abandonment and he feels lonelier than he has in the last couple of years.

Another sigh and he takes out his laptop. It’s fully charged, so he doesn’t need to conect it, although he probably should at some point. He might need to leave in a rush and something he learned from working at the Organization is that a fully charged laptop and phone are a must.

He types for a while, sending mails to his “associates”. There are many people all too eager to betray Moriarty and take over his criminal empire, but Sherlock has been careful about who he chooses to conspire with. In the end, everyone is going down but it wouldn’t do to blow up his cover: Moriarty thinks him loyal for whatever reason and his trust is not something he can afford to lose.

It’d make these past years completely useless.

He loses himself in the work for a long while and when he looks up again, the sunrays are slipping through the half closed curtains. He saves his work and closes up his laptop, going back to the bedroom to connect it to the charger and drops himself on the bed once more, contemplating his options.

Moriarty has yet to contact him and that makes him a bit nervous, but he supposes he can use the time to plan his next move. He hadn’t been counting on coming back to London, but whatever Moriarty is planning seems to be big enough for him to risk the trip. He hopes it’s not a trap, but it could be and so he should be prepared for that eventuality too.

He sighs. He’s too tired for this.

His eyes land on the night table next to what used to be his side of the bed and he opens the drawer on a whim. Some discarded notes greet him, along with an assort of curious items he must have found inside his coat pockets and then discarded in the drawer, telling himself he’d clean later.

He can’t help smiling a bit.

He starts picking out the garbage: candy wraps mostly, the occasional clip, credit card receipts. And the very bottom of the drawer, hidden by what seems to be an old sock…

His breath catches as he takes the ring box out. He opens it and he holds back a sob when he notices the ring is still there, gathering dust as everything else in the flat. He takes it out and cleans it reverently with the corner of the sheet, telling himself he has no right to cry, but incapable of holding himself back.

He had wanted- he had thought-

He had had so many plans. So many wishes, so many dreams. And now-

Now it’s all in the past.

 

* * *

 

The funny thing about big cities is how quickly some things change, while others remain unchanged forever more. Sherlock sits outside the small restaurant, a relatively new one, he thinks (or at least it wasn’t there 2 years ago) and watches the small group of his ex coworkers talking animatedly in a corner, well hidden from anyone who didn’t know just where exactly to look.

Irene’s choice, no doubt.

He considers his options, wondering if he can risk to go in and ask for a table. He’s wearing a suitable disguise, of course, but these people know him entirely too well and he’s fairly certain John would recognize him, no matter what, if he came close enough. Also, his mind link with Irene, while in disuse, is still fully functional and the proximity might spark it into life once more, quickly giving his position away.

So no, better not to risk it.

He crosses the street and finds a small bench where he can sit while he continues surveying the small restaurant. He’s restless and bored, but he shouldn’t be taking risks and while he has managed to force himself to wait while doing nothing for long periods of time when he was abroad, something in London seems to call him to  _ do something _ .

He knows perfectly well what’s calling him, of course, even if he’d rather pretend he doesn’t.

The brief glance he got of John shows the doctor is doing fine, as if nothing had happened at all. He knows it’s likely there aren’t any scars left from his ordeal and he spares a second to think fondly of Sara. He didn’t like her much, to be honest, but that had mostly to do with the fact that she kept flirting with John.

He sighs, closing his eyes. It’s funny how even after all these years, jealousy can still get the best of him. It’s ridiculous and pointless, but-

He notices the restaurant’s door opening and Irene and Kate sliding out. Molly follows them at a considerable distance, looking at something in her phone while the other two women talk quietly among them. Sherlock waits, expecting to see John next, but a few minutes pass, the women leave in a cab, and there’s no sign of his ex lover.

Sherlock frowns.

He wonders if he somehow managed to miss him, but that seems unlikely. John and his team aren’t being particularly discreet about their meetings, so he sees no reason for him to hide when he’s leaving. Unless of course he suspects Sherlock might be interested just in his whereabouts, in which case…

Well, he’s not wrong, although probably not for the reasons he thinks.

He bites his lip harshly, a wave of self hatred threatening to overwhelm him. What he did is unforgivable and he supposes John has every right to suspect he might hurt him  _ again,  _ but it still makes him feel like crap. To think he has lost John’s trust so thoroughly… well, it definitely sits ill with him.

He sits there for an uncountable amount of time, considering his options. Finally, when he has decided to simply go back to Baker Street, the restaurant’s door opens one more, allowing the last member of John’s team out. Sherlock frowns, as he watches John holding the door open for her, a bright smile on his lips.

His heart falls to his feet, but he manages to hold himself together.

John and the mysterious blond woman make their way to the other side of the street, where they stop a cab. Once more John holds the door open for the woman, allowing her in first and quickly following after her. With a sinking feeling, Sherlock stops a cab of his own and instructs the driver to follow the other one at some distance.

John’s new building comes into sight and Sherlock forces himself to breath. He feels like he’s about to be sick and then he watches John stepping out of the cab, helping his companion out and guiding her towards his apartment building’s door with a hand on the small of her back. Sherlock takes a deep breath, willing himself not to vomit and instructs his driver to take him back to Baker Street.

He knows John is perfectly entitled to find someone, to forget about him, to move on. By all rights, John should hate him and nothing Sherlock does or says should be enough to earn his forgiveness, but this-

He doesn’t know how to handle this.

Irrational as it was, _ selfish _ as it was, he realizes he had been hoping that John would be waiting for him, willing to listen to his explanations and eventually forgive him, so things would go back to what they were.

What a fool he has been.

 

* * *

 

John’s new flat is small and devoid of any personality, none of his old things having made the transition from Baker Street to the new place. Sherlock wonders what does that mean, as he idly makes his way across the place.

The living room has a single couch in it, along with a big flat screen. Back at their place they had a couch, along with their own chairs and a ridiculously small TV, since they both prefered to sit quietly to read or to work on something on their computers. The kitchen is pristine, not a single thing out of place and certainly no body parts inside the fridge. Sherlock smiles humorlessly as he notices the small post it on the fridge door with the reminder to buy milk.

John doesn’t drink milk, but Sherlock did. Does.

Maybe his new girlfriend also does and the thought makes his heart ache, but he pushes the thought away. He moves towards the bedroom, but before opening the door he decides to make a detour towards the bathroom. It’s small, with just an equally small shower and Sherlock thinks longingly of their own bathtub back in Baker Street. John was always particularly fond of baths, even if he never admitted it out loud.

There’s a single toothbrush at the sink and no feminine hygiene products. The towels are a sad grey colour and there’s not single decoration inside the place that suggest a woman’s presence.

Maybe they’re not there just yet.

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to go to peek into the bedroom. This one is small too, John’s single bed barely fitting in and Sherlock thinks it must be very uncomfortable for two grown adults to fit there. Then he remembers just how close together he and John used to cuddle after sex and he supposes there’s no need for a bigger one, after all. If they’re not living together yet, the bed is big enough for its purpose.

He rests his back against the bedroom’s door, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He feels light headed and he thinks he’s about to throw up any minute now, but-

He gets himself back under control and he gingerly looks around the room, peeking into the closet and the drawers. All the clothing belongs to John and that’s reassuring, somehow, although he knows he has no right to feel the way he feels. He was the one who betrayed their relationship, he was the one who left without explaining, the one who almost killed John with his miscalculations. And yet-

He lies down on the bed, picking up a pillow and taking a deep whiff. It smells like John and soap and he’s ridiculously pleased there’s not another lingering scent. Maybe he’s wrong and maybe John isn’t sleeping with the woman from the other day, but then why-?

He hears the front door opening and his heartbeat picks up speed. He stands up immediately, looking for an escape route and cursing his own stupidity. He should have studied John’s patterns a bit more carefully, to make sure he wouldn’t be coming home early. He throws the window open, briefly weighing his options and finally deciding he’ll have to risk it: better to break his neck while trying to escape than have John breaking it when he finds him in here.

God, when did his life turn into this?

 

* * *

 

_ You left the window open. Did you want me to notice you were here? _

_ Well, I’m not scared of you, Sherlock. _

He has reread the short email a hundred times, wondering if he should reply. He has changed his phone number a hundred times over the last two years and he has had several email accounts too, but he has kept the one he used to have back when life had seemed too good to be true.

Back to the very beginning, he had received a couple of messages from John, asking for an explanation. He started composing a response hundreds of times, but he never actually sent them, unsure if John actually wanted an answer. Maybe he was just trying to work through his grief and having Sherlock actually answering might make it even harder for him to deal with it. Besides, he didn’t think he deserved the chance to explain, because his explanation would never be good enough to justify his crime.

He hadn’t got an email from John in months though and after what happened today-

But no, he can’t. He can’t risk blowing up his cover now, not when he’s so close to succeeding. He has risked too much,  _ lost too much _ , to simply give up now. 

God, he hopes this nightmare will indeed be over soon.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> Overall, I like the chapter although I don’t think it really helps to move the plot along. Still, it was quite fun to write (I enjoy angst too much, really)  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I hope you’ll enjoy it, although I should warn you the first part might be a bit… troubling, although I edited the more upsetting parts (I think?) and maybe it’s not that upsetting, but for me it has some things that make me feel upset so… well.  
> I had a bit of trouble finding the best title for the chapter but well… I think it works. Somewhat :P  
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings and on with the chapter!

“I think we’re done here.”

Molly takes a deep breath, placing her pen on top of her notebook and pushing it away, still breathing deeply. Mycroft has already stood up, heading towards the door and she pinches the bridge of her nose, willing herself not to yell.

“No, we’re not, Mr. Holmes,” she states clearly, focusing on keeping the door closed. Her telekinesis is weak and she won’t be able to hold him back for long, but maybe it’ll buy her enough time. “Please sit down.”

Mycroft turns to her once more, lips pinched tight and she wills herself not lose her temper. His emotions are all over the place, irritation the most prominent and she fights back a wave of frustration of her own.

She’s the master of her emotions, not the other way around.

“Sit down,” she repeats, biting out the words, holding Mycroft’s glare effortlessly. She might not be very good at physical confrontation, but she does know how to hold her ground when it comes to intimidation. The man huffs, finally doing as he’s been told. One of his hands goes to his arm, probably unnoticed, scratching viciously but Mycroft keeps his eyes fixed on Molly and the psychiatrist sighs, rubbing her temples tiredly.

“Have you ever told Greg about that?” she asks, pointing at his arm and Mycroft frowns, turning to look at it and making a disgusted face after noticing what was he doing. He links his hands, placing them neatly over his lap.

“I don’t see how is that related to our current issue,” he argues, sounding calm but he’s fidgeting a bit.

“Well,” Molly says, leaning back on her seat, keeping her tone light. “Since it relates to why you had to leave your childhood house, leaving your siblings behind despite you definitely not wanting to do it and the guilt you feel over it, I think there’s some correlation.”

Mycroft is breathing hard, angry and frustrated. Molly keeps her chin high, refusing to be cowed. “You’re toeing the line here, Doctor Hooper.”

They stare at each in silence for a long while. “How have you explained the scars, then?” she asks after a while, ignoring Mycroft’s glare that’s warning her to drop the subject.

“I haven’t,” he replies finally, when Molly continues staring at him expectantly. “The good thing about my _condition_ is that I don’t have to explain my reluctance to take off my clothes.”

Molly frowns. “You’ve been dating for over 4 years.”

“Are we going to discuss my sex life now, doctor? Do you really want to know?”

“You’re deflecting,” she accuses, standing up so she can come to stand closer to her patient. Unconsciously, Mycroft attempts to put more distance between them by pressing his back to the backrest, as if attempting to merge with it and Molly wonders if she’s pressing too much. Then again- “Mycroft… Let’s be plain. You had crappy parents and you did the best you could to endure their abuse for years, so they wouldn’t turn their attention to your siblings. As a result you developed several coping mechanisms that, while unhealthy, made the whole situation bearable, but no human is meant to endure that much crap. So of course you eventually had to leave, for your own sake. What happened afterwards-”

“Are you going to tell me that what happened to my siblings wasn’t my fault?” he asks, defiant, holding his chin high and glaring at her. Molly takes a deep breath, reinforcing her mental shields. Mycroft’s feelings are getting a bit overwhelming, but she knows how to deal with patients like this.

“Yes,” she deadpans, crossing her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t your fault. But you knew that already. As I said, your parents were crappy parents and that’s on them. You did what you could, but you were nothing but a child yourself.”

“I was 22.”

Molly takes a deep breath. “You took your siblings with you when you could. As I’ve said before, you did the best you could.” Mycroft opens his mouth to reply and so she hurries to carry on. “You protected them the best you could and the decisions they made afterwards… that’s definitely not on you.”

He huffs, closing his eyes. “Lovely sentiment, Dr. Hooper, but it’s a false statement. Of course it’s on me. Had I got Eurus out sooner… or had I noticed the sort of people she was hanging out with-”

“Your sister’s decisions were completely hers,” Molly argues. “She was a child too, of course, but you were in no way responsible for her decisions. I know you find that hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”

“I was her older brother. It was my job to look after her.” Molly frowns and he looks away. They’ve discussed this subject far too many times, but she doubts she’ll ever fully convince him that Eurus’ choices (and all the death they brought) aren’t, in any way, his fault. “And Sherlock?” Mycroft asks after a while, looking at her once more. “Is his betrayal not on me either?”

Molly pursues her lips. “It was Sherlock’s choice and knowing him, I don’t see how you could have stopped him of doing something he was convinced was a good idea,” she replies, pushing her own feelings on the matter to the back of her mind. “And what you’re doing now… well, it’s perfectly understandable you don’t want him hurt, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Even after everything… there’s a part of me that can’t quite believe him capable of doing such thing. But I’m not making the same mistake I made with Eurus, of course.”

Molly shivers, an image of death and fire playing in her mind eye. “John will find him,” she assures him gently, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “In the meantime, try not to worry yourself into an early grave.”

Mycroft scoffs. “It’s-”

“If you say something along the lines of you deserving it, I swear to god I’ll slap some sense into you,” she warns darkly, narrowing her eyes. She’s only half joking and she knows Mycroft knows it.

“How unprofessional of you, Dr. Hooper,” he comments, a slight smirk on his lips. “Or is that a new technique I wasn’t aware of?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes you people leave me with no other choice.” She says, moving to stand right in front of him. “So, do you want me to do an emotional transfer?”

Molly finds it curious how willing to talk about his issues Mycroft is, unlike most of their co workers, despite him being so closed off to everyone else. He’s not fond of having anyone inside his head either and that probably also plays a role in his willingness to talk, instead of getting Molly to simply work her magic on him. “No, I don’t think so,” he murmurs, standing up and forcing Molly to step back abruptly. “I’m fine for now.”

She doubts it, since there’s obviously a lot of emotional turmoil going on inside his head, but she’s happy he’s willing to work it out in the regular way. She has always believed it’s healthier and leads to healing far more quickly.

“Alright then,” she says chipperly. “Same time next week?”

Mycroft makes a face but nods, exiting the room shortly after. She watches him go, a small sad smile on her lips. She likes (liked?) both Holmes brothers a great deal, but they both had too many issues and she always felt bad for them, leaving her feeling emotionally drained after every session. The both have deep rooted issues and she sometimes feels like there’s no way she can actually help.

She knows that’s not true and that what she does, does help a great deal but still-

She wishes there was more she could do.

* * *

 

A knock on the door makes Molly look away from her scattered notes. She pursues her lips, fighting back a wave of irritation and feeling guilty a second later: her job is to help people and yet she allows herself to get distracted by her _research_ , losing track of time and getting annoyed when she’s reminded she has an actual job to do.

That’s not right, not at all.

So she puts on a smile and moves to unlatch the door. John is standing at the other side, looking as unwilling to do this as ever and she sighs, moving to let him in.

Once his mandatory sessions had been over, John had refused to continue with the therapy, despite the fact that he really needed it: he was doing a poor job of coping with his grief and his anger, but Molly knows better than to keep an unwilling patient. John prefers to bury his emotions deep inside his mind and distract himself with copious amount of alcohol. Between Greg and Mycroft they had managed to keep him away of the bottle enough to ensure he didn’t turn into an alcoholic, but Molly has always felt like she failed him.

She knows that’s not true, but guilt is a funny thing.

Now though… well, the new mission is definitely taking a toll on John and so Mycroft has made these sessions obligatory once more. John isn’t happy about it, but he has complied. He involved Molly in the case exactly because of this, so he can’t quite complain.

“So, how are you doing?” she asks, carefully rearranging her notes to store them away. She knows John is always reluctant to start talking, so she has time. Once she’s done, she looks up at her patient once more and feels her heart dropping to her stomach after seeing his pained expression. “Oh, John-”

“Sherlock was at my flat last week,” he interrupts her sharply, looking like every word hurts him. “I- I think I should have told Mycroft… or anyone, really, sooner, but… I couldn’t. I don’t- I didn’t want anyone to know. And I know it’s silly and that things like that can get me killed but I… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Molly stares at him, blinking slowly. She wasn’t expecting that. “Did you- did you talk to him?”

John laughs mirthlessly, “no. He slipped in when I was out, snooped around and left through the window when I came home.” He leans back on his seat, gaze empty, “he didn’t- I didn’t- oh god.”

He hides his face behind his hands, a low horrible sound leaving him and Molly closes her eyes for a beat, making sure her shields are in place since she already feels overwhelmed by the waves of confusing emotions coming from the other man. “How did you know he was there? Did you see him leaving, or-”

“No,” John interrupts her, peeking at her through his fingers. “I- I just- I came in and I knew. I can’t explain it. I just knew he was there. And then the bedroom’s window was left open and I found a hair on the pillow…” he laughs again, a tad hysterical and Molly flinches, the sound making her nervous. “God, what’s wrong with me?” John murmurs to himself, dropping his head.

Molly watches him in silence, pondering on the best way to approach the subject. “John, there’s nothing wrong with you,” she begins. She has found out that reassuring her patients all their emotions are perfectly valid make them more likely to be willing to talk, but John has always been unpredictable: he might close off even further after this. “You and Sherlock… you lived together for two years, you were well attuned to each other. When you were together, it was like you were just one entity. So it makes sense you _felt_ he was there.” She stops, surveying John’s reaction carefully. He doesn’t seem to react in any way, though. “This whole mission is being hell on everyone, but it’s only logical it’s even harder on you.”

“It’s been two years,” John snaps angrily, standing up abruptly and starting to pace around the small office. “It’s been two years and I still… you know, my first _feeling_ after noticing Sherlock was there wasn’t fear. It was happiness,” he laughs again and Molly makes a disgruntled face. “How fucked up is that?”

Molly stands up slowly, coming to stand on the other side of her desk and sitting on top of it. “John, it’s only natural-”

“Is it? How is it natural, Molly? He threw me off a fucking window! If it wasn’t for Irene, I wouldn’t even be here.”

Yes, well, that’s a good point. But- “These things are rarely logical, John,” she tells him gently. “I’m not saying that the fact you still love him is healthy, but it’s not… feelings just don’t suddenly disappear. And you felt a great deal for Sherlock.”

“Yeah. Look how that turned out.”

“Yes, exactly. But John- you can not blame yourself for still caring. We need to work on that, of course, but what you need to understand is that you’re not going to wake up one day no longer caring about Sherlock or what he did,” she pauses, willing herself to continue. “And I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s only going to get worse if you don’t start working through your pain and your anger. Not ignoring it John, _facing_ it.”

He drops himself on a couch one more, rubbing his temples tiredly. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough for that, Molly. I’m not sure I can handle this. Maybe it’d be better if-”

“Can you really walk away from this case?” Molly asks and John just looks away, biting his lip harshly. “I know you’re having a hard time coping, but I also know that if you walk out on this and Sherlock does end up dead at someone else’s hand… you’re never going to forgive yourself.”

It’s all kinds of unhealthy, but she understands. She herself still feels much for Sherlock and she can’t help being concerned for his well being. It’s crazy, for sure, but- “Besides, if you do catch him- it might give you closure. Or at least you’ll have an explanation.”

“He didn’t love me. What other explanation is there?”

Molly smiles sadly. “But don’t you want to know for sure?”

John doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

* * *

 

“So, how are you doing?” Molly asks, attempting to sound chipper and overdoing it. Mary arches an eyebrow, expression completely blank otherwise and the redheaded blushes furiously, pretending to search through her notes to avoid eye contact.

Mary unnerves her in ways she doesn’t care to explain. While her shields hold well enough when people aren’t overwhelmed by emotion, she still gets a general sense of their mental state. Everyone projects their emotions, some more than others, but there’s always a vibe Molly can detect, if she focus enough.

She gets nothing from Mary, though.

“Do you… I’m sorry for asking, but I’m very curious. Is your mind always shielded?” she asks, brow furrowed. Mary smiles fleetingly, before shrugging.

“At all times,” she agrees, placing her hands primly over her lap. “My abilities make my body unbreakable while I’m in my diamond armour; I figured it was best to keep my mind just as protected by creating a diamond barrier inside my cranium too.”

That sounds… weird. And painful. “I’m sorry, it’s just a little unnerving.”

“So I’ve been told,” Mary replies, smile pleasant but fake. Or maybe it isn’t fake, but it feels like that due the lack of feeling behind it. “It’s useful, though, particularly in this line of work, don’t you agree?”

Molly nods slowly. “So… how are you adapting to the team?” she asks, feeling wrong footed. She has gotten used to getting a general sense of what her patients are feeling, so she can guide the conversation in the direction it needs to be guided but with her…

“Very nicely,” Mary says, still smiling that unnerving smile. “Irene is lovely if a bit… overwhelming but Kate always knows how to put her in her place when she’s misbehaving. You are… well, you. I’ll confess having an empath in the group makes me feel weird and you’re too reserved but from what I’ve gathered… Well.” She smiles mysteriously and Molly feels a shiver running down her spine. “And John is of course very… helpful.”

“You like him,” Molly accuses, without really meaning to. It’s none of her business really, not as a friend and certainly not as a therapist. Mary raises an eyebrow once more and she feels obliged to justify herself. “I just meant… he’s not in a very good place right now. It might be best to keep some distance, perhaps.”

Mary nods, thoughtful. “I appreciate your concern, Molly,” she says after a while. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, though.” Molly opens her mouth to protest, but she carries on without missing a beat. “In all honesty, I don’t really see the point of these sessions. I’m not emotionally compromised by this case. I never met Mr. Holmes the younger.”

That’s one weird way to call Sherlock, Molly thinks briefly. “Therapy is non optional for Agents in challenging missions.”

“Yes, but the reason why this one is challengingly is because of the emotional component,” Mary argues. “Otherwise it’s pretty basic. And unless someone ends up tragically murdered- there aren’t any elements that could characterize it as challenging.”

Molly blinks. Well… she’s not wrong, she supposes. “So you don’t want to do sessions?” she asks and she hates how relieved she feels. That’s completely unprofessional of her, but-

Mary hums. “That’d be acceptable,” she says, standing up and heading for the door. “It’s nothing personal, you understand, but I don’t really like people poking into my head. Especially since there’s not a good reason for it.”

Molly nods, unsure of what she should be saying. Mary smiles perfunctory and then exits the office, closing the door after her.

Well, that was odd.

And yet, she can’t help to feel relieved.

* * *

 

“Earth to Molly, Earth to Molly. Are you there, Dr. Hooper?”

Molly blinks, turning her attention to her companions. She spaced out (again), but Irene and Kate look mostly amused by her sudden distraction. “I’m sorry. I’m thinking of… nothing of importance.”

Irene huffs, taking a sip from her drink. “Sure you are. Who went crazy this time?”

“Irene,” Kate warns, expression softening when Irene turns to look at her innocently. Molly feels a pang of jealousy and hurries to shake the thought away. That’s one road she’s not walking.

“Let’s not discuss work, alright?” Irene proposes, handing Molly her drink. Molly takes it, eyeing the mark of lipstick Irene left on the glass wistfully. She catches Kate’s amused stare and blushes profusely. “We all have had a crappy week, let’s forget about it for a while.”

“You know I’m not supposed to fraternize with patients outside the office,” Molly murmurs, only half meaning it and Irene rolls her eyes.

“For starters, I’m not your patient. I’m with Dr. Hopkins, remember?” Irene says. “Secondly, you’re our friend and you’re part of our team anyway. I don’t think it really counts.” She shrugs carelessly. “And who’s going to tell on you?”

Kate nods sagely and Irene winks in her direction. Molly takes a sip of her drink and tries not to blush furiously when her lips land on the mark Irene left. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in some innocent fun.”

Irene raises her eyebrows salaciously and Molly loses the battle against her blush. Next to her, Kate chuckles. “Irene, behave.”

“Oh, but Kate darling, where will the fun be then?”

Kate rolls her eyes. Irene opens her mouth to say something and then gets interrupted by her phone ringing. She pouts as she sees who’s calling and then scurries out of the bar, leaving the other two women behind. “We’re not actually together, you know?” Kate says and Molly turns back to her, her eyes having followed Irene on her way out without her actually meaning to. “Just so you know.”

Molly blushes furiously. “Am I that obvious?” she asks, embarrassed and then frowns, Kate’s words sinking in. “And what do you mean you’re not together?”

Kate shrugs. “Exactly that. It always seemed convenient to let people believe we were, so no one would come up with crazy ideas but… well. It seems to me it might be a good time to let you know.”

“But-”

“That was John,” Irene announces, having appeared seemingly out of thin air. “It seems girl’s night has been dramatically canceled.”

Kate nods, finishing her drink in just one gulp. “Alright, let’s go. Are you coming, Molly?”

The physiatrist considers it for a beat before shaking her head. “I doubt you need me there,” she says, smiling a little. “I’ll be at my office early tomorrow, in case anyone feels the need to drop by.”

Irene is watching her with a funny look on her face, but she quickly snaps out of it and hurries to follow Kate out of the bar. Molly watches her go, her cheeks still feeling a bit warm due her odd conversation with Kate.

Well, she’s disappointed their night was cute short, but she has to admit it was a nice ending for an otherwise crappy week.

Now if only she could figure out what to do about Irene’s apparent singlehood…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’ve been writing quite a bit of Mollrene lately so… well, I couldn’t contain myself. As for the rest of the chapter…I don’t know. I wanted to write Mycroft’s POV actually, but I got a bit side tracked and this happened. I do like it though, since I think it’s a good way for us to get into the characters’ heads, but I’m not sure if the logic completely holds everywhere.  
> As for the first part… I have far too many feelings about the Holmes parents ever since TFP and I’m never going to get over that scene, so... I’m sorry, but that scene in TFP just hit too close to home, so I hope you can forgive me for the seemingly senseless addition.  
> It’s not completely senseless, though ;)  
> Quick clarification regarding Mary’s powers: I’m thinking something like Emma Frost, from X-Men First Class (you know, the blond girl that was with the bad guys). As I recall, telepathy didn’t have any effect on her while she was turned into diamond, so that’s what I’m thinking here.  
> Anyway, I think that’s it for now! Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	5. Stay stay stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’ll hope you enjoy it!

“I don’t know what to think,” John says, collapsing on the small chair in front of his desk and Mycroft hums absentmindedly. He’s only half listening to the other man’s report, his mind fixed on his discovery of this morning. It’s stupid, he knows and by all rights he should be focused on the real problem at hand (meaning his brother, who seems to have turned into an actual loose end; a dangerous, deadly, loose end) but his silly emotions keep getting the best of him.

He always knew romantic entanglements were a stupid distraction, but-

He looks at John, who seems to have aged a whole decade in the last month and his heart constricts, wondering not for the first time if it’d be better to pull him out of the case. But he also knows John is stubborn and of course he won’t listen to him, so it’s not even worth it trying it.

“Have you checked out all the hiding places the men you captured the other night told you?” he asks, forcing himself to get back on track. “There has to be something-”

“I’ve looked everywhere, Mycroft!” John exclaims, standing up abruptly. “Sherlock was always too good at disappearing,” he murmurs dejectedly. “We’ll never find him if he doesn’t want to be found. Taking in all of his current associates one by one isn’t a bad idea, but…” he trails off, gesturing helplessly. “And there’s also no trace of Moriarty, so I don’t know if… We need to start considering that Sherlock might be working on his own now. Maybe Moriarty is no longer a concern.”

Mycroft pinches his lips together. “Let’s not cross that bridge just yet. We’re missing something,” he murmurs quietly. “There has to be somewhere we haven’t looked.” He chews his lip thoughtfully, but he keeps coming up blank. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll keep on thinking and in the meantime we’ll continue rounding up the criminals he’s been in contact with but… I don’t have much hope, honestly,” John says, running his fingers through his messy hair. It’s easy to see he hasn’t been sleeping much, or eating or generally taking care of himself and Mycroft feels a pang of guilt.

“Alright then, that’ll be it for now, Dr. Watson. Keep me posted on your team’s findings.”

John nods tightly, leaving the room and closing the door after himself with more strength than needed, but Mycroft barely notices.

He’s once more distracted by his morning findings and he takes out the small jewelry box he found in Gregory’s desk back at home. He knows he should be focusing on his work; he has bigger issues than…  _ whatever this is _ , but well…

His priorities are obviously skewed.

* * *

 

He sits at the living room, tapping his fingers against the armrest, mind far away. Gregory is at the kitchen, making dinner with the groceries Mycroft actually remembered to buy today, while he chatters away about his day. Despite his general disdain for small talk, Mycroft usually does pay attention to whatever his partner says, even if it’s just the retell of some office shenanigans. Today however-

“You’re not listening to me,” Greg accuses, now suddenly standing in front of him, hands on his hips and Mycroft blinks, wondering when did that happen. His boyfriend rolls his eyes dramatically, crouching down so they’re at the same eye level but Mycroft avoids his gaze, which just makes the other frown. “What’s wrong, love? Did something happen?”

He shrugs. “John and his team managed to capture another criminal cell, but there’s no sign of my brother,” he answers dispassionately, turning to look at his partner briefly in the eye. “Nothing of importance, really.”

“What’s the matter then?” Gregory asks and hurries to continue when Mycroft opens his mouth to say  _ nothing.  _ “And don’t say nothing, because there’s something obviously bothering you.”

The jewelry box seems to be burning a hole through his trousers, burning his skin and he figures he might as well tell the truth. The sooner they deal with this, the better.

Presumably.

He takes out the box and Greg blinks, staring at the item uncomprehendingly. Mycroft offers it to him and his lover takes it gingerly, before inspecting its contents. He promptly blushes furiously, standing up and taking a step back, making Mycroft’s heart drop to his feet.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, sounding perhaps a tad annoyed. “Have you been going through my things?”

Mycroft understands his anger, of course and he truly has no excuse for invading Gregory’s privacy like this, but- “It was an honest accident,” he says with a small shrug, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. “I was looking for my cuff links and I remembered you had borrowed them, so I…” he trails off awkwardly, fidgeting on his seat. “When were you planning on telling me?”

Gregory frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “I honestly don’t know. With everything… it didn’t seem like the right time.” He’s still blushing somewhat and Mycroft nods, taking a deep breath.

“I see. I’d like to know how exactly do you propose we proceed?”

Gregory’s frown deepens. “I… I’m not sure this really changes anything. I mean… I’m guessing you don’t want to get married? Not now, in any case?” He looks mostly puzzled and Mycroft blinks, processing the information.

“You mean- you mean the ring was for me?”

His companion stares for a beat, confused and then his face clears in understanding. “Oh my god. You thought- you thought I- For Christ’s sake, Mycroft, of course it’s for you! We’ve been dating for 4 years, living together for 2… just who else would I be thinking of proposing to?”

Mycroft blushes. When you put it like that… well, his misgivings sound awfully silly. “I didn’t think… I’m not exactly husband material,” he says quietly, fidgeting once more. “I mean, we don’t… umm… I can’t… I hadn’t actually expected our relationship to last this long. I thought you’d get bored of my many limitations far sooner, so this...”

He bites his lip, aghast. He has said far much more than he meant to, but he can’t take the words back. He normally puts on a confident facade in front of the whole world, but Gregory always manages to get past his many defenses, getting under his skin and revealing his many insecurities and fears far too easily.

“Oh love,” Gregory murmurs, kneeling down once more, discarding the jewelry box and instead taking Mycroft’s hand between his. “No, love, never. I… You’re the love of my life. I could never get tired of you.” He smiles a bit sadly, resting his forehead against his for a beat, before pulling away and cupping Mycroft’s face between his hands. “You’re perfect. If anything, I’d expect you to get tired of me.”

Mycroft huffs, grabbing him by the wrists, making him let go of his face and Gregory attempts to resist, but he’s already looking a bit pale and he’s considerably weakened. “Hardly. I do apologize for even entertaining that thought, though. If nothing else, I should have known you’re too honorable to be seeing someone else behind my back.”

“Damn right,” Gregory says, smile sad and tired as he stands up. “But don’t worry, I’m not offended. Concerned, certainly, but not offended. It’s fine, Mycroft, really.”

But it isn’t. Sadly, Mycroft doesn’t know how to make it better. He has no experience on relationships whatsoever, so it’s been a constant process of trial and error with Gregory and he can’t help worrying; while his lover has always been very understanding, it can’t be pleasant to have such an insecure partner.

“So,” Gregory says, standing awkwardly in front of him, fidgeting a bit. “I’ll go back to making dinner before something burns out.”

Mycroft nods and watches him go, heart skipping a beat.

He’s ill equipped for this relationship business, but for Gregory he’s willing to try.

* * *

 

“What? John, slow down, I’m not understanding a single word!”

Mycroft blinks away, peering at the dark room confusedly. He sits up to look at Gregory, who is standing by the door, talking on his phone. He fishes for his own phone on his nightable and promptly discovers he has 10 missed calls.

God dammit, he was really tired.

“Just put Mycroft on the damn phone!” John yells so loudly that Mycroft can actually hear him and he arches his eyebrows, wondering what has John in such a rush. Gregory passes him the phone silently, a look of concern on his face.

“Really John, there’s no need to be ru-”

“The Headquarters were blown up.”

Mycroft blinks, his blood running cold. “What?” he murmurs, voice breaking, his mind assaulted with memories he thought long buried deep. His whole body is shaking and Gregory sits next to him, placing a hand over his knee, frowning and Mycroft shakes his head, finding himself incapable of repeating what John has just told him.

“-minor casualties,” John is saying and Mycroft forces himself to pay attention. “I don’t know what to do, Mycroft. It’s… it’s pretty bad.”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” he says, already getting up and pulling out his clothes from the closet. “No, make it fifteen.” He hangs up without waiting for John’s response and he hurries to dress, his boyfriend moving to dress too. “Gregory, there’s no need-”

“None of that,” the other man interrupts sharply. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m coming with you and that’s final,” he deadpans, ignoring Mycroft’s displeasure. In the end though, he supposes it’s useless to continue arguing with him and so he simply finishes dressing, figuring there’s no point in getting into an argument right now.

As another memory resurfaces, so strong that the smell of death and smoke reaches him, he figures it might not be a bad idea having Gregory come along.

He’s going to need all the help he can get.

* * *

 

The building is still burning by the time they make it to the Headquarters, but it’s not as bad as Mycroft feared. Or rather, it’s not as bad as the one from the memory that keeps on haunting him. But then this place is smaller and it was late at night, so there wasn’t that many people roaming around, unlike-

Better not to think about that. He can already feel himself getting worked up and that won’t help one bit. He finds John soon enough and he gets his report, but he’s only half listening, his attention keeps on drifting towards the building in flames.

“There’s something else,” John tells him, expression grave, lips pressed together. “I was at my office a few minutes before the explosion, but I got out in time because I got this.”

Mycroft frowns as John passes him his phone, his grip tightening around the small device as he takes in the text message John received.

_ Get out now.- SH _

He feels his legs giving up on him, but John and Gregory manage to catch him before he collapses. He feels light headed, his heart pounding, but he’s barely aware of it, his mind focused on another text received over a decade ago.

_ I’m so sorry. Get out now.- EH _

No, no, surely Sherlock isn’t involved in this. Surely he wouldn’t do this to Mycroft. He was just as horrified as himself when Eurus-

“Mycroft, you need to breathe,” John urges him, slapping him once to get his attention. “Breathe.”

He does, or at least he attempts to. His chest hurts, but eventually it does get easier and soon he has his breathing back under control. Gregory is rubbing his back soothingly, John having moved somewhere else, probably to see to the injured and Mycroft closes his eyes, trying to keep his emotions in check.

“Love-” Gregory begins, but Mycroft shakes his head. He can’t do this, not right now.

“I need… I’m… There’s a church just down street,” he manages to say and his partner frowns, confused. “I- I’ll be back in a bit.”

Gregory seems reluctant to let him go, but Mycroft does need a few minutes to collect himself and his lover seems to understand, because he finally nods. “I’ll stay with John. If something comes up…”

“Yes. Right. I’ll… I’ll be back in a while.”

He needs time to think.

God, he has so much to think about.

* * *

 

_ “What were you thinking?!” _

_ “Brother, please-” _

_ “Eurus, I can’t- I can’t- this is beyond me. I’m sorry, but-” _

_ “Mycroft, please! I just- I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know what I was doing!” _

_ As if that changed a thing. He shakes his head, heart heavy in his chest and allows security to take his sister away. Eurus is still screaming for him, begging for understanding, sounding honestly contrite and yet- _

_ It doesn’t change a thing. _

* * *

 

Mycroft opens his eyes, suddenly aware that someone’s staring at him. It’s an unpleasant sensation, considering the chances that the one observing him doesn’t have any good intentions are pretty high and so he gets ready to flee, quickly calculating the quickest escape route.

As it turns out, he didn’t need to worry.

“You were praying? Actually praying?” Gregory asks, somewhere between surprised, puzzled and amused. Mycroft arches an eyebrow and the other man blushes immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… it’s just I… when you said you were going to be here I assumed you found it soothing to stare at the paintings or the architecture or something. Or that you just needed somewhere quiet and relatively safe to think. I didn’t… I didn’t know…”

Mycroft sighs, sitting on the bench, turning to stare at his boyfriend. This is a subject he never thought they’d discuss, mostly because he didn’t actually wanted to. “My mother was a very religious woman,” he explains slowly, trying to figure out how to explain it. “I’m not… I don’t really practise it anymore, but I do find comfort in the idea that there’s a higher power and that…  _ everything _ , all these horrible messes I constantly find myself into, serve a higher purpose.”

And god, how he needs that comfort right now. To think Sherlock would-

He doesn’t dare to complete that thought.

Gregory nods, expression solemn. Mycroft turns away, feeling vulnerable, knowing the question that’s coming next and dreading it. “You don’t speak much of your mother.”

Which is to say he had never mentioned her before. It’s not an easy subject and certainly not one he’d care to discuss but- “She was quite… overbearing, when I was a child. She had high expectations from me and I always… I always strive to meet them.” He’s fidgeting and he forces himself to sit still; Mummy always hated when he did that and habits die hard. “When I was a fifteen… well. I always assumed I wasn’t interested in relationships in general; it took me a bit to figure out I wasn’t interested in relationships with women.” He closes his eyes, hating the way the memory still can get the best of him. “Mummy wasn’t pleased.”

Gregory moves closer to him, placing a hand on his knee and Mycroft forces himself not to move away. “When I… when my abilities manifested a year later, she said it was a punishment for my unnatural urges.” He hears Gregory’s sharp intake of breath and so he hurries to continue, not wanting to leave the confession half said. “I often wondered if she was right.”

He considers his hands and the gloves nearly always covering them and he clenches his fists, willing himself to breath normally. “Mycroft-” Gregory begins, ever gentle, now completely plastered to his side, the hand on his knee squeezing. “That’s-”

“I know it’s not true,” he murmurs, taking off a glove and holding his hand at eye level, comforted by the other man’s warmth at his side. “But you have to admit it made an awful lot of sense.”

“No, it didn’t,” Gregory hisses, one of his own gloved hands coming to grab him by the chin and forcing him to hold eye contact. Mycroft blinks slowly, watching his lover’s eager expression and he smiles sadly, before leaning in for a kiss that, as usual, it’s over far too soon.

“Is that why you left?”

Partially. Things escalated afterwards, Mummy getting more and more… strict, cruel, distant as he grew older. Sherlock and Eurus were too young to understand and he wanted more than anything to keep them protected, but-

He has explained to Gregory before that he left home because he couldn’t handle living with his parents anymore and that his siblings resented him for leaving them behind. Can he share this part of his past too? 

“Earlier today you said you wanted to marry me,” he whispers and Gregory frowns, obviously confused by the change of subject. “I- I think there are some things you need to know first, so you can make an informed decision.”

“Mycroft-”

“I told you once Sherlock struggled with a drug addiction,” he interrupts, knowing that if he doesn’t say it now, he’s going to lose his courage. “What I didn’t tell you is… he… he stole his first batch from me.”

“What? But why-?”

He must see something in his face, because he interrupts himself and Mycroft takes a deep breath before taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. Dozens of puncture marks cover his forearms, but that’s not the only place he has scars. Gregory just stares at him, unbelieving and Mycroft gulps, before continuing. “I… I nearly overdosed once. It was a close call and it got me so scared I realized I had to stop, but I couldn’t, not while I was still living at my parents’ so I… I… I left. And I quitted, even though it was hell going through withdrawal on my own and I occasionally relapsed which is how… how Sherlock found one of my  _ reserves _ .”

He looks away, not daring to look at his boyfriend, fearing to see his disgust. He never intended to let anyone know about his weakness, not even his therapist, but Molly had peeked inside his head unintentionally and-

Well. What’s done is done and he figures it’s only fair to let him know. 

He expects Gregory to leave, or at least to tell him he needs time to think, because he certainly didn’t sign up for this: it’s one thing to be in a relationship with someone with Mycroft’s limitations, but this is an entirely new thing.

“Do you- you don’t keep drugs around anymore, do you?” Gregory asks after a beat and Mycroft sighs, considering his answer.

“No, but I do know where to get some.” He smiles self deprecatingly as Gregory turns to look at him, thoroughly scandalized. “Addiction is not something you simply… get over it. The craving lessens and on good days I don’t even remember how it felt, but on bad days…” He shakes his head sadly, his fingers tracing iddle figures over the marks on his arms. “And I have plenty of crappy days, so there’s that.”

Gregory takes a deep breath and he closes his eyes, wondering if this is how things end. But then his companion surprises him by placing one hand over his. The contact is brief, but reassuring and he can’t help to smile a little, daring to hope- “Well, I’m glad you’ve told me. I know it’s not easy to discuss these things so… I’m glad you trust me enough. And I hope you know- I hope you know I’m here for you and I’ll do anything I can to ease your burden.”

Mycroft blinks. Are those tears, those he feels threatening to spill from his eyes? Surely not. Surely he hasn’t become this emotional compromised by just a few words. But- “Thank you.”

Gregory smiles, leaning to press a quick kiss against his forehead, “I love you,” he murmurs. They say nothing else for a long while and his lover finally asks another question. “Your parents… are they still around?”

Mycroft shrugs. “I don’t know. When I left the house… no, when  _ we _ left the house, our parents told us we were dead to them so-” He shrugs. “They’re just as dead to me.”

“Christ,” Gregory murmurs softly. “You were so young. And your siblings… well, it certainly explains a lot.” His jaw clenches and Mycroft smiles self deprecatingly once more. “It’s not your fault, Mycroft. You did the best you could; you did much more than what it could have been expected from you.”

Mycroft sighs; that’s an argument he doesn’t care to have at the moment. Besides, he has bigger things to worry about. “Finding Sherlock has become top priority,” he says, unfolding his sleeves and putting on his coat once more. “I need to go back to the Headquarters to see to the material and human damage the explosion caused, but I’d appreciate if you went with John. He’s going to need… we need to find my brother ASAP.”

Gregory nods, standing up too. “Alright then. I’ll call you if anything comes up but darling- try not to overwork yourself, ok?”

That’s a promise he can’t make and so he doesn’t. His boyfriend sighs, but doesn’t press and they leave the building together, Mycroft attempting to focus on what needs to be done, even if shadows of the past keep on haunting him.

He suspects there’s no escaping from the ghost of his past. And yet, as he looks at his partner, he thinks perhaps that doesn’t mean his future is meant to be as bleak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I’m really sorry, but again… boy, I can’t get over that damn scene in TFP, so the Holmes parents are going to continue being the crappiest parents I can bring myself to write (familiar relationships fascinate me, but some themes cut too close home).  
> Anyway… I hope the plot is making sense to you! I fear all this POV switching is making it hard to follow the timeline and making it horribly confusing. Never to fear, next chapter we’ll get John’s POV again, just to tie a few loose ends, followed by Sherlock’s. Then Mary’s (I think) and then… well, I don’t know. Since I believe we’ll be close to the end by that point, I might start mixing various POVs per chapter ;)  
> Let me know what you thought, pretty please?  
> Thanks for reading!


	6. I knew you were trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! It’s rather on the short side (compared to the other ones, I think) but it’s somewhat more plot-y. Or maybe not. I really can’t tell :P  
> I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway!

The insurance company reports that the damage done to the Headquarters was  _ minimal,  _ since the structure itself survived and the safety rooms and all their contents are intact. Human casualties were minimal too, but despite whatever people may think of the Organization (and particularly of its ice-hearted leader), they do care a great deal about their people. These are men and women who have been shunned (for the most part) by the people closest to them, who have been constantly discriminated and mistreated for things they have little control over; they’re people that have been judged to be too dangerous to work and live side by side by  _ regular  _ people and so they’ve become a close knitted community. Inside the Organization, all members are treated as if they were part of a single family (granted, a big and sometimes dysfunctional family), so everyone knows each other, they look after each other and they don’t take attacks against their people kindly.

So of course there are measures being taken to ensure that whoever is responsible for the attack, will pay dearly for it.

John taps his fingers against the table absentmindedly, eyes fixed on his phone. Sherlock might not have been directly involved in the attack, but he certainly knew about it. He knew enough to warn John just with enough time for him (and everyone he happened to run into in his mad rush for the exit) to make it out of the building, which suggests a close knowledge of what was going to happen.

What does that all mean?

In this last month he has gathered enough information on his former lover’s activities to discard all his hopes for it all being a misunderstanding. He knows Sherlock has gone… well,  _ dark  _ and he knows he has become a threat, not only to the Organization but to the general population. And yet-

He closes his eyes, dropping his head between his arms. He can’t allow himself to become distracted by searching for Sherlock’s motivations. Once they’ve captured him, they’ll get all the answers they need and in any case it’s of little use to be making any suppositions: the man he knew and the man he’s now hunting have very little in common.

But-

“John,” Molly murmurs gently, taking a seat next to him, pushing the stack of papers he was supposedly revising away so she can place a tea mug in front of him. “You need to rest.”

“I can’t. After tonight-”

“John,” Molly interrupts once more, placing a hand over his and rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles. “I know you’re having a hard time coping with this, but we’re all here for you and we’ll help. Not only because it’s our job, but because we care and not only about you.” Her voice is soft, comforting and John feels like he’s about to crumble down. “Go to sleep. There’ll still be work in the morning.”

Yes, but he worries it’ll get worse in the morning. Every minute they waste-

But he is tired. He looks around the room to find the rest of his team spread all across his tiny living room, making do with the little furniture he has. Irene and Kate are sharing the couch, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, Greg lying on the floor just beneath them. They’ve dragged his bed into the living room, none of them really wanting to be alone tonight and Molly and Mary are supposedly sharing it, although he hasn't seen the psychiatrist even lie down.

“You’re right, of course,” he murmurs, standing up and stretching out. His spine pops and he winces, not liking the reminder he’s getting older. Just six years ago, on the night he met Sherlock, they had spent the night following a man running all over London’s rooftops, right after 3 hours of crouching behind a car. He remembers the adrenaline pumping through his veins, his bright smile as he ran and Sherlock-

He shakes his head, forcing the memory away. He had known since that very night that he was done for; he could never live without Sherlock by his side. And for the longest time, he had believed the feeling was mutual.

What a fool he had been.

“Night, Molly,” he says, moving to lie by the window. It’s an oddly warmth night and so the window is open, letting the breeze in. It’s both comforting and unnerving, since he does know Sherlock was always quite good at climbing buildings and slipping into places uninvited but-

He’s not alone tonight. And in any case, he’s never been afraid of Sherlock.

Maybe that was his mistake.

But some people never learn from their mistakes.

* * *

 

“Is there something wrong, Mary?”

The woman blinks, apparently having been lost in her thoughts. She looks sheepishly around the room, making sure everyone is still busy with what they’re doing before offering him a small, tired smile. “I’m fine,” she says quietly. “I was just thinking.”

John nods, waiting for her to continue but she just smiles and goes back to reading. John sighs, standing up and stretching out once more. They’ve been at this all day, revising every single file from the last month, looking for something that they could have possibly missed but it seems rather useless.

As he told Mycroft just the other day, Sherlock was always very good at disappearing.

“Do you think searching his old hangouts again is a waste of time?” he asks Irene, coming to stand in front of her and the woman looks up from her tablet. “Maybe… maybe we missed something.”

“You’re grasping at straws, Watson,” she says, rubbing her temples tiredly. “Sherlock isn’t stupid enough to be hiding somewhere you’d thought of looking. All those bolt holes you knew about- there’ll be nothing there.”

She’s right, he knows, but he feels so useless just stuck here- “This might sound crazy,” Mary says and all eyes turn to her. “But I’ve just realized there is one place we failed to look into.”

“Where?” John demands, crossing the room in just a couple of steps, hovering over her and Mary blinks owlishly. “Where, Mary?”

“Your flat,” she says, as if it ought to be obvious and John frowns, looking around the room. Yes, Sherlock was here, but- “Not this one,” Mary corrects, tone perhaps a tad frustrated. “Baker Street.”

John freezes in the spot as a shiver runs down his spine. Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. Their flat. The place where John had honestly expected to grow old, the place where the memories became too much for him to handle and so he had to run. The place where they had been so happy together.

How could he miss it?

He doesn’t bother to wait to see who’s coming with him, he’s already rushing out of the building. He hears his companions calling for him to wait, but he thinks he’d rather be alone for this. If it turns to be a dead end, it’d be better if someone kept on looking for other clues.

And if Mary’s right-

Well. Only one way to find out.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson is surprised by his sudden appearance, but she doesn’t ask questions, only answers his. Yes, the flat is still as he left it. No, she hasn’t gone up in a while, but it just has too many memories, you know? (John does). Mycroft is still paying the rent and in any case, she could never bring herself to rent it to someone else; she’s getting sentimental in her old age and it’s not like she really needs the money. No, she hasn’t heard anything weird although-

“The electricity bill came a little more expensive this month, but I don’t think-”

“Stay here,” he orders, practically sprinting upstairs. He hears Mrs. Hudson surprised exclamation, but he doesn’t look back. He approaches the door carefully, gun in hand, heart beating madly inside his chest.

He can do this. It’ll be fine. He just-

He throws the door open, upsetting the dust gathered over the nearby furniture. He walks in slowly, looking around himself, careful not to step into any traps. Sherlock told him a lifetime ago that dust can be very telling and he understands that now: following the dustless tracks around the flat, he can see where Sherlock has been, what he has been doing.

He suddenly feels sick.

But he forces himself to continue walking and he soon has made it to the bedroom they used to share. There’s another bedroom upstairs that was technically John’s, but he only spent the nights there when they had fought. A near hysterical laugh escapes him at the thought, but he quickly forces himself to focus once more. Any miscalculation now will cost him dearly and-

He hears the sound of the window closing and he sprints forward. The second he has pushed the door open it occurs to him that it could be a trap, but his luck seems to hold. The room is empty, but it’s obvious it’s been recently vacated. He looks outside the window just in time to see Sherlock landing on the side alley and their eyes met for a beat before the younger man starts running away. John doesn’t stop to even think about it and rushes after him, running down the stairs and yelling over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson not to worry.

He runs and he runs, following a quickly cooling trail, feeling more alive than he has in the last two years.

Some things never change.

* * *

 

God, how has he missed this.

He’s well aware it’s not quite the same, since this time he’s actually chasing after Sherlock and not because he’s chasing after another criminal. He knows that if he does catch up with his ex lover, things are likely to get nasty and yet-

He can’t help himself.

Sherlock is moving now through the rooftops, always more comfortable there than on the sidewalk, where there are people milling around and getting in the way. John is familiar enough with them to move with some confidence, but he knows he ought to be careful. He can’t bring himself to care though, too excited to worry about falling and breaking something.

He tells himself he’s survived worse, after all.

And yet, after another jump John’s foot slips, making him lose his balance. He has enough time to panic a little, realizing just how reckless he’s being, when a hand suddenly grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him away from the edge.

He’s breathing hard, heart beating erratically and his eyes meet those of his saviour. Sherlock looks just as breathless, panicked, terrified. John blinks, confused by the swirl of emotions reflected in the other man’s eyes but before he can make sense of his own scattered thoughts, he’s been pulled into a tight hug. His body relaxes immediately, practically collapsing against Sherlock and his lips search his companion’s on instinct. It’s wrong, awfully so and he knows he shouldn’t feel this way, but his body doesn’t seem to care. 

Sherlock pulls away so quickly that he leaves John scrambling to find his footing and before he can even think of saying something, the younger man has already run away once more. John watches him go, jumping across buildings with his usual grace and speed and his heart aches in an unspeakable way, his body missing the other’s heat already.

God, what has just happened?

* * *

 

He had let him go.

Well, technically, Sherlock had escaped but John can’t help thinking he could have stopped him. If he hadn’t been left so confused after the impromptu hug, he probably could have caught up with Sherlock. But he had been confused and, dares he think it, scared of what could happen, of how easily he had let his guard down, that he simply stood by and watched the other get away.

Good god, what’s wrong with him?

He looks towards the living room, where the rest of his team is still milling about, since it’s too early to go to sleep just yet, and takes a long sip from his drink. After today’s events his team had suggested a drink might help him relax, but he doubts all the alcohol in the world will make him any less wind up. He sighs, leaning against the counter, trying to decide whether or not he wants to join the group at the living room. They seem somewhat relaxed and he’s not exactly the best company right now, so-

He notices someone has slided into the chair next to his. Irene watches him for a beat before turning her attention to pouring herself a drink. She sits next to him for the longest time, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, her expression somewhat troubled and John waits patiently. His relationship with Irene was never easy and he’ll admit his unfounded jealousy played an important role in that: her mind link to Sherlock was a matter of efficiency and a coping mechanism (or so Molly had endlessly explained) but he could never bring himself to like her.

And yet, after what happened-

“I never did thank you, did I?” he asks, his voice feeling too loud. Irene just stares at him, blinking confusedly and he offers her a tight smile. “For saving me, I mean.”

Irene seems to consider this for a long while. “I didn’t save you,” she says and John opens his mouth to protest. He knows she feels she should have reacted sooner, but he understands why she froze in the spot. He doesn’t blame her and he’s certainly not angry about that. “That night, on the research facility, when Sherlock threw you out of the window I- I was too surprised to react. I rushed towards the window and watched you fall and I couldn’t- I couldn’t-” her voice breaks and she closes her eyes, her grip tightening around her glass so her knuckles turn white. “I wasn’t the one who stopped your fall.”

“What?” It’s all he manages to say, his heartbeat having picked up speed. That can’t be the truth, it simply can’t be-

“I never said anything because… well. I was too shocked to think, let alone react but me somehow having managed to do it seemed like the most logical explanation to what happened. I mean, if Sherlock was the one who threw you off, then logic suggested he was trying to kill you or at least that he didn’t mind if you died, but maybe…” she trails off, staring at nothing in particular, expression haunted. “I don’t know what to think, John.”

Neither does he, in all honesty.

What does this all mean?

* * *

 

He finally gives up on trying to pretend he’s okay and slips out of the flat, heading for the rooftop. He knows it’s probably a bad idea, not to mention dangerous, but he can’t bring himself to care. His team seems to know better than to try to convince him to stay and for that he’s eternally grateful.

He stands under the stars for the longest time, gaze lost in the horizon. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on his memories of those years by Sherlock’s side, but sometimes it’s just too much for him to handle. As the memories flood back, he starts feeling more and more desperate, more vulnerable, more helpless. He misses him, god, how he misses him despite knowing he shouldn’t. After  _ everything _ he shouldn’t still love him, he shouldn’t still crave his presence and yet all the reasoning in the world can’t change the way he feels.

He thinks of Irene’s revelation and wonders if it truly means something at all. Even if Sherlock was the one who saved him two years ago, it doesn’t change the fact that he was the one who nearly killed him in the first place. Whatever his reasons, it shouldn’t matter.

But it does. Or maybe it doesn’t, John just wants an excuse to keep on loving him. It’ll do nothing but hurt him in the long run and yet-

“It’s a little chilly up here, don’t you think?”

He startles, turning to the newcomer. Mary offers him a shy smile as she continues making her way towards him. He watches her in silence, puzzled by her presence and somewhat displeased: he wants to be alone, he needs to be alone and yet-

“John, I- I wish there was some way I could help you feel better,” she says, biting onto her lip gently. “I just can’t- I can’t bear to see you like this.”

She’s far too close and he doesn’t understand what is she doing. She smiles some more before placing a hand on his arm, rubbing gentle circles over his elbow. “It’s been two years,” she murmurs gently. “And yet, you seem to still care for him a great deal.”

John lets out a humorless chuckle. “I know I shouldn’t. But I-”

“Perhaps…” she begins, still chewing on her lip nervously. “Perhaps it’s time for you to move on.”

She has insinuated herself too close and he blinks, unsure of her meaning. It’s late and he’s tired and this day has been hellish and he’s emotionally compromised and-

Mary is kissing him, gently, tentatively, as if she’s worried she’ll scare him off if she pushes too much. It’s nice in a way he’s not used to; it’s been too long since he’s been kissed. And it’s nothing like the way Sherlock used to kiss him, but maybe that’s a good thing.

Although-

“I’m sorry,” he says, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her back. “Mary, I- You’re a lovely girl and under other circumstances… who knows? But right now I can’t. I have too many issues and it wouldn’t be fair on you.”

She stares at him for a long while, as if wanting to say something, but she finally nods in acquaintance. “Alright. Maybe later…?” she trails off and he nods.

“Yes, maybe,” he agrees although he doesn’t really mean it. She seems to believe him though, because she smiles before turning around and heading towards the door. He smiles back at her when she turns one last time before disappearing downstairs and he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Move on. What a funny phrase.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but he’s beginning to think all the time in the world won’t make him feel any better. He suspects he’ll forever carry the mark of what he lost and he doesn’t think he’ll ever dare to risk loving someone as he had Sherlock.

It’s not a nice prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> We’ll very soon find out what exactly happened with Sherlock and why he did what he did and it will all tie up nicely in a couple of chapters. I’m still trying to decide how to go about the revelation, but well… hopefully it’ll work out in the end :P  
> As for Mary… I know it seems forced and that’s more or less the point. It’ll all make sense very soon, I promise!  
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m so excited because we’re finally getting to the part that really convinced me of writing this whole thing :P  
> This chapter is a bit on the short side since I wasn’t completely sure what I wanted to write so.. well. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Hiding in an abandoned building so you can spy on your ex boyfriend with a pair of binoculars has to be one of those things only crazy _dangerous_ stalkers do. If John was here, he’d have told Sherlock that that’s a _bit not good._

Of course if John was here, Sherlock wouldn’t have an ex boyfriend to be spying on so the point is moot.

He watches John leave the rooftop and he forces himself to move away from the window. This is enough of an invasion of John’s privacy without him lowering himself to spying on him in his actual home.

And yet-

He drops himself on the floor, hiding his face behind his hands. He slept little last night; he had known the attack was meant to take place on that night, he had gone as far as programming the bloody bomb despite how sick it made him feel. However, he had figured it was for the best: by programing it himself he could make sure John got out in time and he could count on his ex to get everyone else in the building out too before it went off.

But someone had tampered with his program and so he nearly hadn’t had time enough to warn John, let alone anyone else. He feels horribly guilty about how things went, of course, but if John had actually died-

Well. Better not to think about that.

In fact, he should be focusing on what he’s going to do now. If Moriarty ordered for someone to change his programming, chances are he’s been discovered. If Moriarty does not longer trust him, all he has done in these last two years has become pointless.

He can’t abide the thought.

What to do, what to do? He needs… he needs to do something to earn the master criminal’s trust back. How did Eurus do it in the first place? It never ocurred him to ask her and anyway, it’s not like they got the chance to _talk_ after her first and only visit.

_I’m giving you a golden opportunity, brother dear. Do you have the guts to take it?_

She was manipulating him, of course; by _daring_ him, she had ensured he’d do as she expected. He should have been smarter than that, wiser than that. But at the end of the day, he’s the _regular_ brother. Too needy of his more gifted siblings praise and _respect_ to let this chance pass him by.

Mycroft would have been horrified, he knows and he’d have never let him do what needed to be done, which is why he decided to go completely _solo._ John wouldn’t have understood either, which had left him with no other choice but let them believe he was a traitor.

He has lost too much already. He can’t afford for it to be in vain.

So what does he do now? Something big, something important. The problem is that that sort of task usually comes with a high body count and Sherlock could never… what he’s done already is bad enough, to think of hurting further innocent people…

But then, if Moriarty isn’t stopped, it’ll just keep getting worse. So is a bit of a greater good issue, isn’t it?

God, he can’t believe he’s even thinking this.

“Bit stalkery, don’t you think?” Sherlock jumps, startled by the sudden intrusion and turning around immediately, heart beating madly inside his chest. Moriarty smirks confidently, holding his hands up as if showing he’s unarmed.

Which of course it’s pointless, because that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

“How did you find me?” he asks, trying to look calm and collected, as if this was a normal occurrence. Moriarty prefers to deal with things via text or email, if he has come to _visit_ …

Well, that can’t be good.

“Oh, relax Sherlock,” he says, strolling calmly towards the window. He takes the binoculars from him and Sherlock forces himself to keep on breathing normally. Moriarty smirks and one doesn’t need to be a genius of Sherlock’s caliber to imagine who’s he spying on. Sherlock takes a deep breath, reminding himself that snapping at the other man won’t do him any good. “You know, when you threw him off that building two years ago… I had high hopes, Sherlock. But it seems that it was a _of the moment_ decision, huh? You’d never actually want to hurt good Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock shrugs non committedly and Moriarty laughs. “Oh, no need to pretend with me, dear. And I honestly don’t care,” he adds playfully, giving the binoculars back. “What you do on your free time, or rather _who_ you do, it’s none of my business.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw but doesn’t take the bait. Moriarty watches him in silence for a beat, before apparently figuring out that’s all the reaction he’s going to get from him and so rolling his eyes dramatically. “Really, Sherlock. I let you live because you used to be so much fun, but now… Well, now I don’t know what to think.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Oh no, no, never. I’m not one to make iddle threat, Sherlock dear. If I want someone dead… well, they just end that way.” He smirks, patting Sherlock’s shoulder in mock affection. “I’m just saying… I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Why did you have someone altering the bomb’s programing?” he finds himself asking, although he hadn’t meant to. He’s giving too much away and at this point of the game it’s just too dangerous, but he _needs_ to know.

“It seemed more fun that way,” Moriarty replies simply with a shrug of his shoulders and while Sherlock doesn’t believe him, he knows that as far as the criminal is concerned, it’s a perfectly valid reason. “Why does it matter to you?” he asks, smirking knowingly and Sherlock looks away.

“Ugh. _Feelings._ What a bothersome thing, don’t you agree? You’d be much better off if you could forget all about your dear doctor. He seems to have forgotten all about you already. Why, with the new flat and the new _girlfriend…”_

Sherlock realizes his mistake a little too late. He has grabbed Moriarty by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall, therefore giving away just how much he still cares about John and how much the fact that he has seemingly moved on is hurting him. The other man just laughs cruelly and Sherlock lets him go, ashamed of his emotional display.

“Was there anything in particular that you wanted?” he asks once he has gotten his emotions back under control. It won’t last, he knows, but with any luck his control will last long enough for Moriarty to leave.

His companion chuckles amusedly. “Not really,” he says, smirk still firmly in place. “I have all I need for now,” he adds mysteriously before disappearing as quickly as he came, not leaving a single trace of his presence behind.

Sherlock sighs as he collapses against the wall.

It’s going to be another long night.

* * *

 

Hacking into your former employer’s database just to look into your ex boyfriend’s girlfriend’s file has to be another of those things only crazy dangerous stalkers do.

Sherlock supposes he has officially lost it.

He’s not quite sure what to make of Mary Morstan. There’s actually very little information of her childhood growing up in Sussex. He supposes that makes enough sense, it’s not like many noteworthy things happen in small towns. She went to college in France (her mother was french, apparently) and she lived there for nearly a decade before moving to London two years ago, when she had submitted her application to the Organization. She had been accepted almost immediately, her gift considered too valuable to go to waste and yet Sherlock can’t find a single mission report where it has proven to be actually useful.

That might be the jealousy talking, of course.

She seems a perfectly average woman with a slightly interesting gift, who has little to none social life outside her work and no family left in England. Psychology reports are useless, since no therapist reports anything remotely interesting. She seems to be the kind of person who goes through life without nothing actually happening to them.

Not until now, that is. Because now she’s working with John (and apparently dating him) and that has put her both in Sherlock and Moriarty’s radars. At this point it’s a little hard to say which man represents a bigger threat to her.

Sherlock sighs. He doesn’t think he could ever hurt a mostly innocent woman out of sheer jealousy, but every time he catches sight of her and John interacting, he’s high pressed not to run into his ex’s direction just to push her away. He has no claim over John, he lost any right to his love or his fidelity and yet-

Jealousy is a funny _irrational_ thing.

Both him and John had jealousy problems, although he always believed John’s was completely unfounded. For starters Sherlock was gay and the only men he actually interacted with enough frequency were his brother and his brother’s boyfriend. As for the women… well, he was close to Molly, but she was like the little sister he never had (since the one he does have holds a grudge against both him and Mycroft). As for Irene…

It was downright ridiculous, really. Not only was Irene gay too, she and Sherlock were a little too alike for a relationship to actually work. If they had decided to date, for some unfathomable reason, it was likely one would end up killing the other (not literally. At least he didn’t think so.)

There was also Sherlock’s personality to consider. No one remotely sane would put up with him long enough, or at least that’s what he had always been told. Evidently John wasn’t very sane, but his was the kind of crazy Sherlock didn’t mind one bit.

John on the other hand… well, he was much better at hiding those aspects of his personality that didn’t come across well. He was also handsome and a smooth talker; before he and Sherlock had actually admitted to have feelings for each other, Sherlock had watched an interminable line of _dates_ of both genders being paraded around the flat. He wasn’t the kind of man to toy with people's feelings, though and so Sherlock had thought-

It doesn’t matter anymore, of course. Sherlock won’t ever move on from John but it’s clear as water John hasn’t had the same problem. Guess that goes showing who was right to be jealous, huh?

It’s an uncharitable thought, he knows, but he can’t help himself. After all, he was the one who left without any sort of explanation, not to mention what happened at the research facility.

He runs his fingers through his messy curls, telling himself he needs to focus back on the Work. He has wasted enough time torturing himself with thoughts of John’s love life and he does have things to do. Moriarty’s visit doesn’t bode well for the future and if he’s not careful…

He stands up, determined to do something useful and stop moping. He wonders if the shower in the flat he’s occupying momentarily is still working and he figures he might as well try it. He surveys the contents of his bag and nods approvingly; if these two years abroad have taught him anything is to always be ready to pack hastily and leave in a rush, so it doesn’t seem like he forgot anything at Baker Street. He doubts John will go back to their old flat, or at least he doubts he’ll stay long but it’d be foolish of him to move back. It had been foolish enough the first time around, a second one would be downright suicidal.

And yet he wants to. He misses his old life and being at his old flat gave him a false sense of belonging that was more than welcome. Still, he does know better than to indulge in sentimentalism.

Or so he tells himself.

* * *

 

 **To:** Sherlock Holmes (sh@thescienceofdeduction.net)

 **From:** John Watson (jw.11@gmail.com)

 **Subject:** I found the ring.

 **Attachment:** photo001.jpg

I don’t understand.

I never have and now I understand even less. I offered to help check the flat for anything you might have left behind; imagine my surprise when the only thing I found was a jewelry box thrown hastily into the drawer of your nightable.

What were you thinking, Sherlock?

I know I shouldn’t care. Hell, at very least I shouldn’t be writing to you, searching for answers, but I can’t help myself. I’m still a hopeless fool when it comes to you.

What have you done to me, Sherlock?

What have you done to us?

* * *

 

He had forgotten about the bloody ring. He had been taking it out of its box every morning, cleaning it religiously, telling himself maybe one day he’d get to give it to John. It was a silly, foolish hope, he knew, and yet-

Well, nothing for it now.

But he does wish he had remembered to pick it up and bring it with him. He knows the finding must have affected John in some level and he can’t bear the thought of causing him any more pain. And yet, at the same time, it gives him hope. Maybe it’ll convince Jonn he isn’t doing this completely out of his free will, maybe he’ll start figuring out there are other players involved.

It’s not fair, though. John deserves so much better. But-

Well. Nothing for it. He must focus on his Work, he doesn’t have time for this.

He can’t focus, though, too many thoughts running wild inside his head. All this time he has been itching to explain his reasoning, to let John know exactly why is he doing what he’s doing. But he’s beginning to worry he might not get the chance to explain after all and the idea of John never knowing the truth sits ill with him.

He taps his fingers against his chin as he tries to figure out a way to relay his message to John, without risking it getting intercepted by mad criminals. Written communications are obviously off the table and while he could always use a middleman, there’s the chance they’ll get captured by Moriarty, who won’t hesitate at reading their thoughts. The only reason Sherlock’s thoughts are safe is because his defenses are top level and as long as there isn’t any proper skin-to-skin contact, he’s perfectly safe.

Huh. Now that’s a thought.

Ms. Morstan’s gift might prove useful after all.

* * *

 

Kidnapping your ex boyfriend’s new girlfriend so you can tell her what exactly is going on in the hopes she’ll deliver your message to said ex is probably another of those _a bit not good_ things.

But Sherlock is past the point of caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m quite pleased with how this chapter turned out, although it was hard to write. The problem with writing Sherlock’s POV is that I don’t want to give much away and yet he does know what’s going on, so it’s a bit difficult to make it work :P  
> Anyway, we’ll get an explanation very soon, so worry not!  
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Better than revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I was really looking forward to Sherlock’s “evil” monologue, but I’m afraid it didn’t quite work out. Also, this turned ridiculously short.  
> Oh well.  
> I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway!

The first thing that registers is that, all things considered, she’s perfectly comfortable.

It’s not the sort of thing you’d expect after being kidnapped, even less if you consider who’s doing the kidnapping. Mary smirks at the thought; well, that might not be exactly right in her case.

She knows Sherlock much better than he thinks, than  _ anyone _ thinks, really. 

She struggles to sit up. Her hands and legs are tied up, but the ropes aren’t tight; whoever tied her up didn’t mean for them to chafe her skin and another smirk comes unbidden to her lips. Dear Sherlock, so ridiculously  _ considerate. _

She’s sitting on a soft surface; a couch if she had to venture a guess. Her eyes are covered by a loose blindfold and there’s something covering her mouth, but not gagging her. She sits very still for a while, listening closely to her surroundings. She summarizes she’s in some sort of abandoned building, judging by the lack of sound coming from upstairs, although she supposes it could also be a very deep underground basement. She thinks she can perceive some natural light coming from somewhere at her left, so-

Footsteps distract her from her musings and she quickly smooths down her expression. Showing herself not to be scared would be a mistake; with Sherlock’s current reputation she ought to be concerned. Better let him believe he’s the one in control here; it wouldn’t do to ruin the  _ surprise. _

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” she says, once he has taken off both the blindfold and the piece of cloth covering her mouth. “Should I feel honoured to be your first  _ personal  _ victim?”

He makes a face, distraught. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Mary stares at him for a long while, as if considering his words. She holds back a smirk; she knew that already. “Then why am I here?” she asks, aiming to sound distrustful and succeeding. Sherlock sighs, shaking his head, before dragging a chair in front of her so he can sit.

“What I’m about to tell you- you can’t tell anyone. Not yet, in any case.”

Mary arches her eyebrows. “Oh?”

Sherlock hesitates, standing up again. Whatever he wants to say has him worried and Mary can’t help wondering what is this about. The more she watches Sherlock, the more convinced she becomes she already knows what he’s going to say; but she can admit, if only to herself, that she wasn’t expecting that.

Dear unpredictable Sherlock. So much more interesting than Mycroft, even if less clever.

“I- there’s something I need John to know. I always hoped I’d be able to tell him myself, when-” he gestures vaguely around, expression haunted. “- _ everything  _ was over. But now I’m not sure I’ll survive long enough to tell him the truth and I can’t- I can’t bear the idea that he’ll never know the truth. That he’ll never understand why I did what I did; that he’ll never know I love him more than life itself, despite it all.”

A confession. Of course. “You expect me to believe whatever tale you’re about to spin.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Once everything is over… it’ll make sense, I promise. You’ll know I was telling the truth.” He looks desperate, haggard and if Mary wasn’t who she was, she’d pity him.

But being things what they are- “Alright. I’m listening.”

Sherlock nods tightly. “I should probably start at the beginning. There’s much of my past I never actually spoke off; John always seemed to understand that there were things I’d much rather not discuss but now I realize… it might have been easier to explain if I had been more forward.”

_ And you assume he’d have stayed, had he known the whole truth. How… optimistic,  _ Mary thinks darkly, careful to keep her expression from betraying her thoughts. 

“My siblings and I… we didn’t have a very regular childhood.”  _ Understatement of the century.  _ “My sister and I… well, we were much too young to really understand and Mycroft was too much of a martyr to let us know how bad it actually was. But it wasn’t pretty.”  _ Another understatement.  _ “When my brother had to leave… it got…” he hesitates, chewing on his lip viciously. “Well, it was ugly.”

Mary nods sympathetically, although it’s all an act. She does know what he’s saying, though.  _ Ugly  _ doesn’t begin to cover it. “I ran away when I was 16 and Mycroft took me in. Our parents were far from pleased and Eurus… My sister, Eurus, bore the worst of their displeasure.”

Mary has clenched her fists, but she tells herself to relax. She needs to remain calm, unaffected. “You abandoned her to her fate,” she deadpans, some emotion coloring her tone and Sherlock looks up at her, looking startled.

“I... I suppose that’s what it seemed to her,” he murmurs reluctantly. “It wasn’t… Mycroft tried to get her out, but Eurus and I were both minors so the odds weren’t really on our favour. But my brother managed to pull a few strings and eventually he was granted custody.” He bites his lip, looking thoughtful. “We did what we could.”

_ It wasn’t enough,  _ Mary thinks. She plays along, though. “What does this have to do with anything? That was ages ago.”

Sherlock sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Eurus didn’t- I suppose she resented us a little. Or a lot. With good reason, I suppose, but… I… it wasn’t… it wasn’t deliberate. I didn’t mean for her to get hurt and Mycroft-” he interrupts himself sharply by biting his lip once more. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that she had… while she was still living with our parents, she had made some… questionable acquaintances. She became friends with a group of extremists that were… they didn’t… they believed Gifted Ones were treated unfairly, but they didn’t care for getting equality for everyone. They believed the Gifted were better suited for positions of power, but they… they…”

“They were the ones that blew up the Parliament,” she finishes for him. “To prove a point and to exercise some pressure on the British Government to simply… go along with them.”

Sherlock nods. “I don’t think Eurus really understood what were these people after or the role she played in everything, but at the end of the day… that explosion was…” He shakes his head, horrified. “Well, you know what happened next. With all the commotion it caused, it became top priority to catch the people involved. My sister was among those captured and she-” 

“She was sent to prison. A very special one.”

A slow, thoughtful nod. “There was nothing else to be done; she might have not meant to harm anyone, but  _ she had  _ and Mycroft could do nothing to spare her. That certainly didn’t help our relationship.” A rueful smile and Mary thinks,  _ indeed.  _ “For years, we thought that was the end of that. Mycroft didn’t… he perceived Eurus’ fate as a personal failing and we didn’t speak of the matter anymore. In time, we both allowed ourselves to forget we had had a sister at all. It was unfair and cruel and huge miscalculation.”

A smirk comes unbidden to Mary’s lips, but luckily Sherlock isn’t looking at her and she composes her expression soon enough. “What was your sister’s  _ gift,  _ Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock clenches his jaw, looking at anything but Mary. “Shapeshifting. She could look like anyone at all, a perfect mirror image of who she choose.” He takes a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching. “She escaped and she went to Moriarty impersonating me. She… she convinced him I had truly switched sides. If I had attempted something like that he’d have known I was just faking it; one look into my mind and that would have been that, but Eurus… Well. She was being honest, wasn’t she? She meant what she told him, she just wasn’t really me. Then she came to me and told me she had given me a golden opportunity to infiltrate Moriarty’s network.”

“By letting everyone believe you had betrayed the Organization.”

“Yes. John didn’t know, but before…  _ that night,  _ there were already several investigations going on against me. It was a matter of time before my so-called betrayal was discovered, which would further my cover with Moriarty but it meant I would need to disappear. I couldn’t tell anyone the truth, not without risking Moriarty’s discovery and in my head, the pros outweighed the cons.”

“Because you thought once you were done bringing down Moriarty’s network, you’d simply need to explain and that’d be it,” Mary says, smirking now, incapable of holding herself back. “Everything would be forgiven and forgotten. But you miscalculated once more.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, expression pained. “That night, at the research facility- I could never fight John, I could never hurt him. But I needed him out of the way; I just couldn’t blow up my cover. So I… I didn’t think… I saw Irene coming and I assumed she’d stop him from even hitting the window; he wasn’t supposed to… I didn’t mean to… it was a mistake!”

Mary makes soft agreeing, calming noises. She can tell Sherlock is greatly distressed; in the verge of breaking down and that simply won’t do. She doesn’t think she can bring herself to actually attempt to comfort him, so better cut this display of emotion short.

“Why did you decide to tell me this?” she asks gently, as if she cared, as if she understood.

“Because your mind is blinded, so there’s no chance someone will find out unless you tell them. And I’m asking you not to tell anyone until this is all over.”

“You do realize we’re supposed to be hunting you down.”

Sherlock smirks, but he just looks sad and tired. “You won’t catch me. No one could, unless I wanted them to and I… my job is nearly done now. If I survive the final encounter with Moriarty, I’ll tell John myself. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I want him to understand.”

“And if you don’t survive… you expect me to tell him?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head, “why would I? If you die a martyr… well, he’ll never get over you. That’s definitely not something I want,” she smirks, hoping he’ll catch her implication. If he saw the kiss from the other day (and she’s fairly certain he did), he will.

Sherlock smiles gently at her, “but you will tell him. Because if he doesn’t understand… he’ll be miserable. And you don’t want that, because you love him, don’t you?”

Mary blinks. Well, that’s… that’s a curious logic. 

Sherlock seems to interpret her silence as acceptance and he nods to himself, standing up. “There’s a small knife in the pocket of your jeans. You should be able to cut yourself loose in a few minutes, if you’re as good as your files suggest. If not- well, you have time since I’m leaving this place definitely.”

He turns around to leave, but he turns back one last time once he’s at the door. “Mary I- just- make him happy, will you?” he looks honestly pained and Mary isn’t sure what to reply, so she doesn’t. He nods to himself once more, before disappearing through the door, leaving her alone with only her thoughts for company.

Well, this is an unexpected turn.

She smirks.

A turn for the better, definitely.

Who would have know revenge could taste so sweet?

* * *

 

She manages to break loose just a few minutes later and she’s at her own flat just 10 minutes after that. She stands in front of her full body mirror in her bedroom and she smirks once more, as she replays her conversation with Sherlock.

“Love him?” she asks herself as she examines her reflection. She chuckles, amused with Sherlock’s conjecture. “Love him?!” she repeats, laughing out loud now, to the point her belly starts aching due the lack of her air. “Love him!” she exclaims once more, breathless.

She’s a much better actress than she thought.

“Oh no, brother dear,” she murmurs to herself, watching her reflection as her hair turns her natural dark color, her eyes changing to blue, her complexion paleing further. “I do not love him. But if that’s what you want to believe… well, all for the better.”

Eurus smiles at her actual reflection. 

Sherlock was always dear older brother Mycroft’s weak spot. Get to him and you’d hurt him where he hurts the most. On the other hand, while he’d never admit it, Sherlock craved Mycroft’s approval _ desperately  _ and he’d go to any lengths to get it. She had always known that, so the first part of her plan had been frustratingly simple: offer Sherlock the chance to show off to his adored older brother and watch him fail; see how Mycroft handled that.

It would destroy Mycroft watching his little brother get caught up in this little web and know he wouldn’t be able to help him in any way. As for Sherlock… well, she had thought his failure and the punishment he’d receive for it, would be enough of a revenge, at least until Dr. Watson came into the picture. Eurus had been planning her revenge for far too long and the doctor’s appearance couldn’t have been better timed.

If she had time, she’d have gone after Mycroft’s little boyfriend too, but she supposes she’ll have time later. If Sherlock is right and he does die while facing Moriarty, she can forget all about his dear doctor and focus her efforts on tormenting her older brother just a little more. How far can she push before he snaps, she wonders?

She smirks cruelly. Oh, this is going to be so much fun!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Originally, Mary and Eurus were two different people, although the first was indeed working for the later, so in that last scene we had them meeting up. But in that original plan, Mary had had a change of heart, after listening to Sherlock’s heartfelt tale, which of course it pissed Eurus off big time.  
> So Mary was killed and everyone, logically, thought it had been Sherlock. But… well, it felt like murdering a female character for the advancement of the male character’s plot and I’ve been doing too much reading on the subject for me to do it. Maybe it was a mistake, but I am happy with how it played out, although I’m not sure if the revelation feels quite as dramatic as I hoped…  
> Also, did Sherlock’s tale make sense to you? It does inside my head, but I worry it feels forced and that it doesn’t make much sense of why exactly he did what he did. We were supposed to have a few more clues before this chapter, so we had a better idea of what was going on at this point but well… the author is bad at planning :P  
> Anyway, let me know what you thought, pretty please?  
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m sorry for the late update, but I struggled like crazy with this one. I hope it doesn’t show, but well… it was hell to write ;)  
> Enjoy!

Being woken up abruptly might be one of the most unpleasant feelings in the world.

It’s somewhat worse when you’re not even sure who or what woke you up so abruptly.

Mycroft sits up, peering at the room through narrowed eyes. It’s quiet outside, or as quiet as London can ever be: he hears a few cars passing by and the occasional laughter and the low murmur of people chatting in the street. It’s quiet inside the room too, nothing but the gentle murmur of both Gregory’s and his own breathing: a sound he normally finds soothing but tonight-

He stands up, feeling restless. He doesn’t know what woke him up, but he knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep until he figures it out. Something feels wrong, something isn’t quite right and yet, the more he looks around himself for answers, the more confused he becomes.

He frowns as a memory comes unbidden to him. When Sherlock was barely a toddler, Mycroft would often wake up in the middle of the night, startled without any good reason. After a lot of research and some close observation, he came to understand that what woke him up was his own brother, his mind reaching for his without any proper conscience of doing so, because he was feeling anxious. What a toddler had to be anxious about would have been a very interesting question, hadn’t their parents been how they were. As things were-

Sherlock had never grown to control that; in fact, Mycroft suspects he doesn’t even know he did it since he never said a word about it. Mycroft found it useful: a way to keep tabs on his brother’s mental state that wasn’t exactly a breach into his privacy. His logic might have been faulty, but it was born out of good intentions.

However, it’s been years since he felt his brother’s mind calling for his. Ever since he and Irene decided on a mind link to keep a better control of their gift, he hadn’t-

What could have happened for Sherlock’s control to slip like that?

“What’s wrong?” Gregory asks, sitting up. Mycroft looks at him, then at the pillow forte separating their two sides of the bed and sighs, shaking his head. His partner sighs too, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders before wrapping himself around him too.

It’s nice and it’d usually help, but not tonight. “I think- I think there’s something wrong with Sherlock,” he whispers softly, letting himself bask in the warmth of the embrace. Before Gregory, he hadn’t known just how badly he missed human contact. Now, he doesn’t know what he’d do without him and at the same time, he can’t help feeling like it’s not fair.

Something to worry about another night, though. “It’s been a long while since Sherlock’s distress was bad enough to wake me up,” he explains, although he knows it might not make sense to Gregory, but his lover does know when he just needs to vent, not expecting a word back. “It’s- It worries me. With all that’s going on… it can’t be good.”

Gregory hums, pulling him closer. “I told you part of the reason I choose John for this mission was because I knew he’d never actually hurt my brother,” he murmurs, rubbing his temples tiredly. “I know that still holds true. But there’s no guarantee… I think we’re not the only ones after my brother. I can’t explain it, it’s just… a hunch, if you will.” He covers his face with his hands. “I just know something’s wrong. More wrong, that is.”

His partner hums once more, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck and Mycroft freezes. Gregory sighs, pulling away once more. “I think you need to sleep,” he tells him, going back to his side of the bed. “You’ll be doing yourself no favours by being sleep deprived and there’s really nothing for you to do right now.” When Mycroft just shakes his head, dislodging the blanket from his shoulders, Gregory continues. “Mycroft, I understand your worry, I really do. But all we can do is continue looking for him and hope we’re the ones who get to him first.”

He knows it’s the truth. It doesn’t make it any easier.

* * *

 

“We have a problem,” Irene announces storming into his office as if she owned it. The rest of the team follows closely, all with similar looks of concern on their faces, which makes Mycroft realize something big has happened.

“Indeed?” he asks calmly, forcing himself to continue breathing normally. He has felt at edge all day; his abrupt awakening in the middle of the night feeling like a premonition of something bad (something terrible) coming his way and this feels like confirmation.

Gregory steps closer to his desk, slipping a few photographs in his direction. His boyfriend should be at his own work, since he does have superiors to report to, that get all antsy when he doesn’t show up in several days, so his presence here-

He picks up the photographs and feels his heart dropping to his feet. These are images from the CCTV network all around London and they show-

“When are these from?” he asks as calmly as he can, considering his heart is beating madly inside his chest. The kidnapping of his agents is something he doesn’t take lightly and given the particular circumstances…

Good lord, what is Sherlock doing?

“Yesterday at midday,” John responds as calmly as he possibly can. “I hadn’t been able to contact Mary since she left my flat in the early morning, so we became concerned, thinking something had happened. We didn’t think we’d have any luck with the CCTV network, but for once…” John gestures vaguely, expression pained. “Unfortunately, our luck didn’t last since it seems like the earth swallowed the car and its passengers shortly after.”

Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly, wondering what should they do next. “There’s nothing to do but continue looking,” he murmurs defeatedly, shaking his head. He knows everyone in the room knew that already, but it still feels like he has let them down by not having any answers to offer. He doesn’t quite dare to look up, feeling completely defeated and helpless, as he hasn’t feel in a long time.

He feels rather than sees as everyone steps outside of his office, the air filled with tension. Once the door closes he allows himself to collapse against his seat, his head pounding painfully. He knew this mission was going to take a toll on everyone involved, but he never quite imagined…

“Mycroft.” He freezes, feeling like an animal caught in the highlights and Gregory comes to stand on his side of the desk, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asks softly, almost pleading and Mycroft shakes his head, holding back tears. He feels raw and entirely too vulnerable and he certainly doesn’t want to talk about it.

It doesn’t do to show weakness, particularly not to the people that claim to care for you since they’re usually the ones who’ll know exactly how to hurt you. A lesson he learned ages ago.

Gregory sighs, kneeling on the ground and trying to get him to look at him in the eye, although Mycroft keeps avoiding his gaze. “Love, look at me,” he practically begs, resting both hands on his knees tentatively. “Love, please.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his face blank, but his expression drops when he sees the pain reflected in his lover’s kind eyes. “We’ll get through this,” Gregory promises earnestly, attempting to smile and failing miserably. “I can’t promise you it’ll be fine and in fact it’s very likely it just going to get worse now, but we’ll get through it. We’ll figure out something.”

They might, but he worries where that will leave them. All of them, really.

He thinks of Eurus and how helpless he felt as he watched a security team take her away. He recalls the way she looked at him, so full of anger and  _ disappointment,  _ making him wonder if there was something else he could have done. He remembers the anger he felt towards himself, for allowing things to go that far and him thinking that if only-

He and Sherlock never spoke of the issue, not ever again. They pretended everything was perfectly fine and, with time, they even pretended they had never had a sister. They both pretended to forget.

But Mycroft never did and the guilt,  _ for what he did, for what he didn’t do _ , haunts him still.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,” he murmurs dejectedly and closes his eyes when Gregory cups his face between his hands with all the love and care in the world, before pressing a lingering kiss on his lips.

He can feel his partner wants to add something more, but he doubts there’s anything that he could say that would make him feel better. Gregory seems to know this too, because he contents himself with pulling him into an awkward hug, making sure there’s no skin-to-skin contact whatsoever.

What he would give for things to be different.

But wishing for something has never changed a thing.

* * *

 

Bad news just keep on coming.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mycroft murmurs darkly as he rubs his temples in an attempt to chase away his incoming headache. He feels like crap and he wants to go to sleep for a little while at least, but in fact he knows it’s very likely it’ll be a couple of days before he can even lie down for more than a couple of hours. 

It’s been a little under two months since the rumors of Moriarty’s return first started, just for him to go underground once more and just when Mycroft has other (arguably bigger) concerns, the master criminal chooses to make a public reappearance, in his typical dramatic fashion.

As if he needed to steal the Crown jewels to get anyone’s attention.

He drums his fingers against his desk, thinking carefully about his next move. The problem is that now that Moriarty has decided to reveal himself, they’re running a race against time. Whatever the man has planned, it must be big enough for him to have risked coming back to London and he evidently has everything he needs to put his plan into motion, with little risk of getting caught or his scheme stopped. Which means…

He doesn’t like it, but some things take precedence. He’s worried about his brother, obviously and about Ms. Morstan’s disappearance but given the circumstances, they need to put their efforts in figuring out Moriarty’s puzzles and hope they’ll figure out his game with as few losses as possible. Besides, if the do play the criminal’s game, it’s likely that sooner or later they’ll end up running into Sherlock and, with some luck, that’ll lead them to Ms. Morstan too.

He just hopes it won’t be too late by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh.  
> Thoughts anyone?  
> You have no idea how I struggled with this chapter. I hate transition chapters, because I rarely know what to do with them and I’m constantly second guessing myself. I rewrote the first scene at least thrice and I’m still not fully convinced I like it but well… I suppose it works.  
> Next chapter should be better, since we’re approaching the story’s climax. We’ll be getting quite a few changes of POV, so hopefully that’ll keep it interesting too ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	10. Bad blood. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a lifetime, here’s the new update!  
> I was so so stuck with this. Even now, I’m not exactly happy with it, but it’s the best I could do. My original plan was mixing POVs and advancing the plot that way, but it just didn’t work out and it felt so wrong and I got so frustrated and… well. I did the best I could. I hope it’s not too confusing, though!

_ Timing _ , Eurus thinks.

The success of every great plan comes down ultimately to timing. You can plan to your heart’s content, have as many contingency plans as you want, eliminate as many independent variables as you wish and it’ll still come down to the perfect timing.

Having people show up at the right time is tricky. It’d be easier, she thinks, if she had some sort of mind control abilities, but she doesn’t, so she relays on her cleverness, her scheming and her ability to manipulate people. It doesn’t always work, but when it does…

Well. These have been 2 very good years, haven’t they?

She sits at her small hotel room and stares at her computer’s screen for what feels like a lifetime. She didn’t predict Sherlock’s attempt to set the record straight, but that could have ultimately worked out for her benefit. She miscalculated Jim’s timing though and that might throw things up for a loop.

Although maybe not. While it’s true that everyone’s focus will now be on Jim and Ms. Morstan’s disappearance will be nothing but an afterthought, she might still manage to turn the odds onto her favour. If Jim’s plans were to fail…

But they have an agreement, don’t they? And unlike the rest of her family, she does have some measure of honour, so she’d prefer to keep her end of the bargain. Jim has played his part marvelously and it wouldn’t be right of her to betray him at this point, particularly since her revenge is assured anyway.

She taps her fingers against her chin, contemplating her options. That she’ll get her vengeance is a fact, but she was hoping to inflict as much damage as possible. She’s not quite satisfied with the outcome she can foresee with things being what they’re right now, but she supposes it’ll have to do.

She nods to herself, standing up and heading towards the window, so she can stare outside. She’ll wait and see and hope. She’s been playing this game for far too long, so she knows patience is key. Now is someone else’s move and she’ll wait, see what happens, plan for new eventualities and pray something will change, giving her the upper hand once again.

_ Timing,  _ she thinks once more.

She’ll wait.

* * *

 

Her head is killing her.

She sits up on the entirely too small bed and rubs her temples, attempting to chase the headache away, even though she knows that never works. Her mind is sometimes her biggest enemy: it works too fast, faster than the average human mind and it never quiets. She’s always thinking, always plotting, always running different scenarios. When she was younger it served her well, since it helped her escape the hell her everyday life was: it helped her to drown the noise coming from her parents and made her feel less alone.

In prison though… it had driven her insane. She had nothing to distract herself with and only her thoughts for company, so she spent a lot of time just trying to quiet it down. It hurt in ways she can’t explain and it made her acutely aware of just how lonely she was.

Planning her revenge had kept her somewhat sane, but she was miserable. She intended for her brothers to feel that way too, for only that way they’d pay for what has happened to her. And while, debatably, she has achieved that..

These two past years aren't enough.

She growls, as the pain keeps getting worse. Her overactive mind has always caused her migraines, but it has gotten worse ever since she got the implant. It needed to be done, of course, so her deception could be complete, but it hurts like hell. 

She needs to focus. There are a million things that require her attention and it won’t do to get distracted; she might lose her chance if she allows herself to lose her focus. The pain means nothing in the great scheme of things, but if she fails…

It can’t have been for nothing. One way or another, she’s getting her revenge.

But she  _ promised.  _ She and Jim, they made a deal. And she won’t break her vow, she  _ won’t.  _ She knows the master criminal probably expects her to, but she’s better than that. She can keep her word, she can wait. If the pieces don’t fall in their correct place, she’ll make the best she can of the cards she’s been handed, but-

_ Patience,  _ she reminds herself.  _ Patience is key. _

She has waited long enough. What are a few weeks more?

* * *

 

Eurus finds herself often thinking about Jim these days.

Her relationship with her brothers, previous Mycroft’s abandonment, hadn’t been exactly good, but it hadn’t been bad either. She was way too smart for either of them to fully understand her, but Mycroft’s age helped, so he was the one who got her better.

Like Sherlock, she had idolized her oldest brother. Unlike Sherlock, her brother hadn’t adored her back. 

Mycroft was…  _ wary _ of her brightness, she believes, and her inability to tell right from wrong, or so he had always said. To Eurus, the end always justified the means and she could never understand why her brother couldn’t see it. But she loved him, loved him deeply and would have done anything (literally anything) for him to love her just as half as he loved Sherlock.

It never worked out.

And when he left… Eurus hadn’t known how to cope with that. Of course Mycroft noticed Sherlock’s addiction right away while he completely overlooked hers. By that point she hadn’t minded, though. It dulled the pain and it made her brain go quiet for a little bit, so she didn’t mind her older brother’s indifference. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

And then… the  _ incident.  _ She had had an inkling of the level of madness of the extremists’ leader. She hadn’t cared enough. The end, as usual, justified the means and by that point all she wanted was her brother’s attention. And boy, did she get it.

The prison had been awful and the loneliness daunting. But Mycroft showed up like clockwork every Tuesday and sat down to talk to her for an hour. For an hour, she had her brother’s undivided attention. And for a while, it was enough.

Good things never last.

An argument, she doesn’t even remember what about, and she had asked her brother to leave her alone. Mycroft, of course, had complied. And Eurus hated him for it.

When Jim had showed up, so bloody charming and willing to listen, Eurus had been hooked. She played along, letting him believe he had the control, letting him believe whatever he had wanted to believe. Love, as it turns out, is an enchanting fantasy and everyone is always too willing to buy into that illusion.

Jim’s plans were always grand and chaotic and seemed to serve no purpose. It took Eurus a long while to figure out what was real and what were smoke curtains, but she eventually did. And when her darling brothers got involved…

Well. Of course she had to get involved too.

Jim had broken her out of her prison then, although he could have done that ages ago, considering he had been in charge all along. Eurus recognized it as another step in his mad plan and she hadn’t questioned him, simply putting her own plan on the table and hoping Jim’s penchant for drama would make him at least consider it.

She doesn’t think they ever were equals, or partners, but they worked along well. When she finally left to put her plan into motion, Jim had told her that they’d never see each other again and Eurus had grieved the lost relationship, but she had bigger fish to catch. Another case of the end justifying the means.

As she watches Jim’s plans unfold, she wonders if he’ll get whatever he’s after.  _ I’m not the type of man that goes without a bang, Ms. Holmes  _ and she knows that while whatever he’s planning will end up with his death, she also knows it’ll be something grand.

If he takes Sherlock along with him, Eurus supposes she has no one else to blame but herself. 

* * *

 

It’s rather senseless, Eurus thinks.

But then no, because all the chaos and destruction is supposed to hide the fact that Moriarty is handing down his empire to his Lieutenants. And he knows they’ll fight among them, so that’s likely to cause more chaos and, eventually, someone will emerge victorious.

Going with a bang, indeed.

And dear Sherlock is meant to take a piece of the empire too, apparently. Except Jim knows he’s not really with him, but he’s offering him the chance to seize the whole empire and either destroy it or take it for himself. A test, of sorts, although senseless, Eurus believes. 

Her brother doesn’t care about power. And particularly not when dear Dr. Watson is on the other side.

Love makes us do the craziest things.

* * *

 

“You’re an idiot,” she informs him very seriously and she can tell Jim is smirking, despite the fact her back is turned to him. “Why bother with this whole charade if you were actually planning on losing?”

Jim shrugs non committedly, dropping himself on her bed. “It was a possible outcome,” he acknowledges, “I didn’t think Sherlock had it in him. All those deaths…” he shakes his head, as if he was troubled, but he’s still smirking. “I honestly didn’t think he had it in him. I must admit it was a pleasant surprise.”

_ Jealousy.  _ Eurus recognizes the feeling making her skin itch and her blood boil and promptly chides herself for being ridiculous. For many years, she had Jim’s undivided attention. Or as undivided as he’s capable of, in any case. But considering…

Well. “I thought you said we wouldn’t see each other again,” she says, not wanting to dwell on what she’s feeling. She’s obsessive, she knows and that won’t serve any purpose now.

“I thought that too,” he agrees quietly. “But I wanted to apologize for messing up your plans a bit. Nice of you, not ruining mine to achieve your own goals.”

“I’ll have what I want,” she replies calmly. “It might not be perfect- but it’ll be enough. I won’t go back on my word.”

He nods, thoughtful. “I’m sorry we met a little too late. We’d have made the whole world burn.” He smiles, an honest if crazed smile and Eurus rolls her eyes dramatically. “But that never was what you wanted, was it?”

She shakes her head. “No. I- We’re different.”

“I wonder…” he says, but trails off, staring at nothing in particular. “Your brothers were quite foolish,” he tells her and Eurus can’t help the sad smile that comes unbidden to her lips. “You’re a brilliant asset, Ms. Holmes.”

She is.

But that’s not why they should have loved her.

“If you can… please consider not taking Sherlock down with you.”

Jim nods, standing up in one fluid move. “I don’t intend to. But I can’t promise he won’t do something reckless.” He shakes his head, amused. “Although maybe he won’t. Considering his  _ plan B _ has suddenly go missing… Brilliant, that, if I may say so.”

She chuckles, amused. “It was… quite something. I never saw it coming.”

“He keeps surprising us, doesn’t he?” Jim says, almost fondly and Eurus pursues her lips, annoyance building up. “Be careful, Eurus. I… my plan is complete and the pieces are all in place. It wasn’t the outcome I expected, but it’s one I had considered. You, on the other hand… you haven’t even considered you might not succeed, have you?”

“I won’t fail,” she answers simply and her companion’s smile widen. He nods and steps towards the door, offering one last mocking vow.

“Goodbye, Eurus Holmes. May your succeed on your endeavour.”

Eurus nods.

She will.

* * *

 

As Jim said, she wasn’t expecting Sherlock to be willing to go so far to seize Jim’s empire. Her dear brother has always been unpredictable like that and the thought makes Eurus smile: regardless of her personal feelings for her brother, she has to admit his unpredictableness also makes him terribly useful.

She thinks she can predict where the game will come to its inevitable end now and she has an idea of what she can do to turn the odds back on her favour. Jim’s death wouldn’t be in vain, not by his own standards, but now it’ll be really useful for Eurus’ plans.

She ignores the slight pang in her chest at the idea of the closest thing she has to a friend’s death, telling herself that in any case, that’s completely his choice and there’s nothing she can do about it, so she might as well seize the opportunity.

In a couple of days at most, her dear brother will believe he has cornered Jim at Bart’s rooftop. But of course, that’s not really the case.

Well then.

She has much to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m bad at action sequences, so I knew I would have to skip a lot of those, hence my idea of changing POVs so I could stick to writing the characters reactions to those actions. But, as you can see, I failed miserably so…  
> Still, I did enjoy writing Eurus POV, although I’m not convinced it advances the plot a lot, although it certainly explains a few things (or not?). Next chapter should work better, since I think I’ll actually do the POV changing thing and we’ll get Sherlock & Jim’s confrontation and, probably more important, Sherlock & John’s reunion (of sorts). We’ll also see Eurus’ newest plan ;)  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out! Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


End file.
